The Darkest Red
by skylarkblue
Summary: Mrs Hudson's niece is coming to stay at 221 Baker Street, as a terrorist group attempts to tear London apart from the inside out. London's last hope? A lonely sergeant, an army doctor, a silent girl and the world's only consulting detective.
1. Bored

John Watson prided himself on being an intelligent man. He was not particularly a clever or witty man, but he was a doctor, and they most definitely do not let your common morons become a doctor.  
John knew his intelligence was nothing compared to that of his flatmate. It could be infuriating, sometimes, to know that by society standards you were smart - but by Holmes standards, you were nothing more than perhaps average.

These thoughts played in John's head as he stirred his tea. He glanced to where Sherlock was lounging about on the couch and turned back to the tea. Sherlock had laid there for days. They were in between cases, but instead of even making an effort to entertain himself, Sherlock merely sat and shouted insults to crap television shows. Occasionally a shot would be fired at the wall. He hadn't picked up his violin or gotten up to eat, and John was fairly certain he hadn't slept either - not that John knew this for a fact, but he hadn't _seen_ Sherlock sleeping, so he was operating under the general assumption Sherlock hadn't slept. The only relief he found was that Sherlock hadn't so much as asked for a cigarette, and John had thoroughly checked the flat for drugs. However bored he was, Sherlock hadn't yet turned to anything illicit to alleviate it, and for this he was so very thankful.

John briefly prayed for something, anything, to come up soon. Four days with Sherlock like this was beginning to test his patience. And then it seemed his prayers were answered when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the doorframe before letting herself in.  
Sherlock sat up, suddenly animated, facing Mrs. Hudson with an expression of glee; John wasn't sure why, but he guessed Sherlock had deduced something.  
His guess was, of course, right.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, switching off the television with a wave of the remote. "What do you want to ask us?"  
"Hello, John. Sherlock dear, didn't I ask you stop putting holes in my walls?" She ignored his question completely, inspecting the wall of 221B.  
Sherlock grimaced in frustration, rolling his eyes as if this was a pointless remark. John apologised quickly, wondering what, if anything, Mrs Hudson had apparently come to ask of them.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock's been - well. Bored."

Mrs Hudson tutted and shook her head, setting down some bags of shopping, making small talk, shooting a quick grin in John's direction as Sherlock got increasingly annoyed with the both of them.  
"What do you want, Mrs Hudson!" He finally snapped, properly standing (for the first time in days) and crossing his arms.  
Mrs Hudson smiled pleasantly, ignoring Sherlock's rudeness. "I was wondering if I could ask a favour of the two of you."

"Of course, anything," John replied as he systematically stacked food around various experiments in the fridge.

"As you both know, my niece is coming to stay over the summer. However, unfortunately, for a week of her time here...I'll be elsewhere. I was wondering-"

Sherlock collapsed backwards onto the lounge, closing his eyes with a dramatic sigh. "Boring."

John shot Sherlock a look. "We'll- I'll be glad to keep an eye on things while she's staying at your flat."  
"Oh, thankyou, John." Mrs Hudson helped him pack away the last of the groceries before leaving. At the last second, she paused in the doorway. "The bullet holes are coming out of your rent, Sherlock."  
"They always do," he muttered in reply.

John sat down opposite Sherlock, tea in hand. It had cooled to a pleasant temperature while they'd been talking. He drank it slowly, watching the consulting detective as he switched the telly back on.  
"What do you suppose Mrs Hudson's niece is like?" John asked finally.  
"I don't know, John. Don't care." Sherlock's eyes remained closed. "Unless she brutally murders anyone, I'm not interested."


	2. Mrs Hudson's Niece

**"Parker! Oh, it's good to see you, love."**

Her aunt squeezed her shoulder gently as she got out of the cab, dragging her bag behind her. Parker looked over 221 Baker St with disappointment; however, she was secretly glad to be there.

Parker was the youngest child of Mrs Hudson's sister. As the youngest of five, she had always been overshadowed. Mrs Hudson, too, had been overshadowed by her more successful sister when they had been children. She understood, and that was why she was the only family Parker really bothered with.

"How was your seventeenth? Did you have any friends over?"

Mrs Hudson didn't expect a reply. Parker hadn't said a word for a good six months, much to the frustration of her mother. She suspected her sister had only sent Parker to her in an effort to straighten things out.

"We'll just get you settled into your room and then I'll introduce you to the lads upstairs, Sherlock and John, though you've probably heard of them - Sherlock works as a detective with Scotland Yard!"

Mrs Hudson babbled on as Parker unpacked her bags, talking about the men upstairs, how she hoped the weather would be good during Parker's stay, how she was so sorry she would be leaving in a few hours, but she'd be back in time for the last couple of Parker's weeks.

Parker mostly tuned her out as she dumped her phone and iPod on her pillow, pulling on a grey hoodie before shoving the gadgets back into her pockets. It was cold in London, despite it being summer, much colder than she had expected.

When she was done Mrs Hudson took her upstairs to meet John and Sherlock. She was actually a little excited by this - she'd read a few stories about them in the paper, and who could forget the whole incident with the faked suicide? It was a little strange to think they rented a flat from her aunt.

Mrs Hudson's knock at the door had been expected from the moment John observed the cab pulling up outside the flat. Sherlock called "Come in," while John busied himself in the kitchen, making afternoon tea with crumpets.

"John, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson was grinning, her arm around a teenage girl. Sherlock estimated her to be seventeen, at most, around John's height and an ex-dancer judging by the way she stood. Her hair was a disturbingly unnatural shade of red, with a scruffy, uneven fringe he suspected she'd cut herself. Sherlock wondered if that was considered the in style for teenagers these days, but honestly didn't care and considered it to be quite unfashionable. It made her look like street urchin.

"Afternoon, Mrs Hudson. Do you want some tea?" John was in an annoyingly good mood, had been all day. Sherlock suspected things were going well with that boring girl from the café - it was the only explanation.

"No thanks. Boys, I'd like you to meet my niece, Parker Scott. Parker, this is the detective, Sherlock Holmes, and Dr John Watson." She gave the girl's shoulder a squeeze while John smiled and said hello and all those other dreadfully boring pleasantries. One thing he noticed though, was the girl never spoke in reply. She shrugged, smirked, communicated various answers through facial expressions and body language, but he didn't hear a single word pass her lips. Not unusual, he thought, if she suffered from some kind of anxiety, but she displayed no anxious habits. The girl simply did not speak, and this aggravated him for reasons he didn't understand.

Parker went back downstairs while Mrs Hudson spoke to John.

"No, she's not said a word for six months, I was meaning to ask you about it actually, her mother refuses to take her to a doctor."

"It's more than likely an anxiety dis-"

John, as usual, gave a frustratingly predictable diagnosis.

"The girl doesn't have anxiety." Sherlock looked up, interrupting him mid-sentence. "There would be visible signs of it, bitten nails, a nervous tic, elevated heart rate. She was just introduced to two strangers and displayed none of those things. Not anxiety."

John sighed and Mrs Hudson frowned at him and he remembered that most people didn't want to hear the truth, they wanted the answer that made the most sense to them.

"My cab will be here in just under an hour, I'd better finish packing. Are you sure it's fine for you to check up on Parker? I hate to impose, I really do."

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock had interrupted John before John even had a chance to reply. "If we weren't willing to do it, we wouldn't have offered. The girl will be fine while you are gone, John will make sure of it."

"I'm glad to, it's no trouble." John added, giving him another look. He really hoped a case would come up soon. Sherlock was becoming just a bit insufferable.

Mrs Hudson returned downstairs, waving goodbye to the boys over her shoulder. Inside her flat, she collected her bags and ran off a quick set of instructions for Parker (don't open the door if you don't know who it is, don't burn the house down love, if you have any problems go see John or Sherlock upstairs they're happy to help, there's a little spare money in the biscuit tin if there's an emergency, and do please try to stay out of trouble) before moving out to the front step to wait.

As the cab arrived, she gave Parker a tight hug. Parker held her for a few moments, and then her aunt was leaving. She waved as Mrs Hudson was driven away.

She let out a relieved sigh. Finally, she was alone.


	3. Late Night Visitor

John surveyed the kitchen table and groaned, resisting the urge to punch the nearest wall. He did not know why there was a human arm on it. He did not know where the human arm came from. He did not know what human the arm belonged to, but he did know who currently owned it.

"Sherlock!" He shouted. "When did a partially dissected human arm appear on my kitchen table?"

Sherlock's head appeared from around the corner of the hallway. "While you were out getting dinner. There's no need to shout, I was just in the bathroom. Did they have the chili sauce I wanted?"

He took a deep breath and managed to speak much more calmly this time despite the overwhelming urge to throw the chili sauce at his friend's head. "Yes. Please remove the arm from the table..._no, Sherlock, don't put it in the sink_!"

"What am I supposed to do with it then?"

"Put it in the bathroom for now. Wash your hands. I will clean the table, and we will eat before the food gets cold."

"The bathroo-" Sherlock stopped. John was visibly agitated. It probably wasn't wise to tell him about the current experiment going on in the bath tub. It involved a bottle of bleach and a human hand and had taken quite a bit of convincing before Molly would even consider letting him do it, but well, convincing Molly to do things "in the name of science" was always a specialty of his.

With the table cleaned, hands washed and plates out, John dished out Thai food from the local takeaway. Handing Sherlock a knife and fork, they both sat down and began eating in silence.

After five or so minutes, John felt the need to make conversation, however pointless it was. "What do you think of Parker?"

"Who?"

"Parker. Mrs Hudson's niece, Sherlock."

"Oh." Sherlock stopped chewing for a moment, thinking. "What do I think, or what did I deduce from looking at her?"

"With you it's basically the same thing."

They shared a smile before Sherlock answered. "She's seventeen. An ex-dancer - ballet, I think. Doesn't get along with her family, excepting Mrs Hudson. Doesn't have many close friends. Wants those close to her to notice her, but at the same time doesn't want to attract attention. Has one cat that she loves. Keeps a journal. The journal would probably give you an in-depth view on why she doesn't speak."

John knew he wanted to show off, so he did him the favour and asked. "And how can you tell all that?"

"When she was standing, her feet were in fifth position. It's a common trait in dancers, but she's lost muscle tone in her legs. For whatever reason she gave up dancing in the past six months. She was obviously glad to be with Mrs Hudson, indicates they're close, but her expression when Mrs Hudson mentioned her sister implied she dislikes her mother. She had both a phone and iPod in the pocket of her jumper, most teens would check for a message at least once, she didn't - very lonely. Her natural hair colour is a dark brown, but she's dyed it that horrid shade of red...she wants her friends and family to notice her. As I said, she's lonely. Cat fur on her jumper, it's an expensive jumper, either she doesn't care for it or loves the cat. Ink along the palm of her hand and she doesn't sleep well. Most people write best late at night."

He grinned when he was done and John nodded approvingly. If Sherlock said all of this was true about Parker Scott, it was.

As they finished their meal, he cleared the table and started doing the dishes, giving a vague "if it must" when Sherlock asked if the arm could return to the table. When he was done he settled into his armchair and switched on the television, checking the time. Doctor Who was on.

"That show has flawed science. It's utter rubbish, John, why do you watch it?"

"Because I enjoy it. Go back to your arm."

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smile as he positioned the scalpel over the arm. He wanted to view the process of tendons and muscle tissue rotting when the flesh was exposed to air, and while he'd seen plenty of images online there really was nothing like firsthand experience.

Hours ticked by slowly and John dozed off in his chair aroundnine o'clock. Sherlock covered him with a blanket and turned off the television; it was what John did those rare times he fell asleep on the lounge.

He woke with a start around eleven-thirty and glanced around the room. Sherlock was sitting in silence, reading. The room was quiet, so what, if anything, had pulled him from his sleep?

A knock at the door answered his question. Parker stood there, wrapped in a quilt, looking far too awake for the time of night. Sherlock didn't do anything, so John walked over to her, leaving the blanket on the armchair.

"Is everything okay?" he asked her, leaning into the door. She nodded hesitantly, but he sensed she wasn't being quite truthful. He tried to apply the few skills of deduction Sherlock had taught him. Her hair was messy and her eyes unclear. She'd already been asleep, but something had woken her. "It must be hard, first night alone in the flat, right?"

Parker nodded again, twisting her mouth into an expression John had only ever seen in confused or nervous children.

"Do you want to stay here tonight?"

Another nod. John moved aside to let her in, leading her across the room. "Are you planning on moving off that lounge tonight?"

"She can sleep in my room. The bed has fresh sheets. I'm not sleepingtonight, Lestrade sent over something he wanted me to look at." John was a little irritated he had spoken as if she wasn't even standing there, and had hardly acknowledged her. He didn't even bother looking away from his book until he turned the page. John had taken Parker to the room and was currently saying good night to her. When he walked back over, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Yes?" John paused before the stairs.

"Nice job...with the deduction. You actually took most of her appearance into consideration."

John wasn't surprised Sherlock had seen him trying to figure Parker out. "Did I miss anything?"

"Not that I saw. Goodnight, John."

"Night, Sherlock."


	4. Four O'Clock

**It was four o'clock in the morning.**

The world was strange at four o'clock in the morning. It was a time when thoughts were pure, when the whole world seemed to have stopped when in reality it never would. Most people would find this to be a boring hour - nothing to do, nothing on television, nobody else awake who pointlessly distract and interrupt.

Sherlock Holmes was not most people. He enjoyed this time. In the hush of night, he could think in peace, solve cases that only annoyed him during the day. In that moment he was reading over a cold case Lestrade had sent him two days ago. Reviewing cold cases was a good way to fend off boredom and this perfectly silent time was the best time to do it.

As he noted something down, the silence was shattered by a scream. Sherlock felt brief flash of annoyance at the sound before he completely processed what had happened. A scream. From his room.

The girl.

He was on his feet in seconds, hesitating only once he was at the door. John had told him it was rude to barge into people's rooms, especially while they were sleeping. But she had screamed in fear, which meant something was wrong. Besides, it was technically his room.

He opened the door gently so she wouldn't be startled or frightened by his sudden appearance, and peered in, his eyes immediately drawn to the quivering redhead.

Parker sat upright in bed, knees drawn to her chest, taking slow, deep breaths like her life depended on it. Sherlock could tell immediately she'd had a nightmare - there was something about the facial expression, the widened eyes, the irregular breathing. A ghostly look, as if her mind was only half awake with the other half lost to the terrifying reality inside her head. He'd seen it in John many times and wondered if he should go get him. John knew something of the monsters that could plague one in their sleep.

"Are you alright?"

She jumped, her unfocused gaze snapping onto him before she nodded slowly, blinking away tears that had formed in her eyes. He frowned.

"Are you certain? You don't look-"

He was bad at this. He always knew exactly what to say unless it came to those things John was good at - sentiment. Kindness. Sherlock told people he was a sociopath, but he knew this wasn't true. He felt, but he didn't know how to express it, and it was far easier to ignore petty feelings when they got in the way of fact. "...Are you sure everything's okay?"

She nodded again, more positively this time. It was harder to tell when someone lied if they didn't speak, but body language could tell you a lot about a person.

"I'll let you go back to sleep, then."

As he turned away, she made a sound. He froze and looked at her quickly. She wanted to speak, but for whatever reason, her voice caught in her throat.

"Would you like me to stay while you sleep?"

He was unsure if this was an appropriate question. But Parker looked shaky, nervous, at the mention of sleep. If she felt safer with him in the room, he would stay. If it was an incorrect deduction, he would leave.

Parker nodded again, visibly relaxing as Sherlock sat on the floor by the door. She closed her eyes; her breathing slowed, returning to a regular pattern. Within minutes she had returned to slumber. She appeared younger when she slept, but there was still something uneasy about her expression, something Sherlock couldn't place.

She stirred briefly a few times, whimpering in her sleep, her long fingers clutching at the pillow. Every time she cried out, Sherlock would look back up, watching her as she struggled through sleep.

Scribbling notes down as he reviewed decades-old crime scene photos, he glanced up at the girl. She was beginning to intrude on his thoughts, with her mumbled words and fear-filled moans.

In the times when she was quiet (aside from her rhythmic breathing) he wondered why she refused to speak. Obviously it wasn't a physical issue - she could make noise fine. She had even muttered a few unintelligible words. It definitely wasn't a language issue, considering she'd lived in England her entire life. He didn't think it was anxiety but he wasn't positive. This not knowing both frustrated and pleased him. Parker Scott was his new case, and he wasn't going to give up until he solved her.


	5. Morning Silence

The next morning was quiet. Parker's presence had an effect on the flat; her silence seemed to extend itself to everything and everyone around her, diluting the average sounds of the day. When she had awoken she had simply pulled herself from bed and straightened the sheets, ran her fingers through that shock of red hair and made her way out to the kitchen, with Sherlock following behind, throwing himself into his lounge. The cushions made no sound. Her footsteps weren't even noticeable as she crept barefoot through the flat. She'd put the jug on and made herself a cup of coffee with far too much ease for someone who didn't live there. Sherlock said nothing. Words were unnecessary when they would not get a reply, but he did thank her for the coffee she handed him.

He was mildly surprised to find his coffee had been made exactly how he liked it before reminding himself the girl was silent. Silent people tended to be observers. Most likely she had noticed how John made his coffee when they'd been introduced, and merely imitated it.

As if the thought had summoned him, John made his way downstairs with bleary eyes and a tired yawn. He appeared peaky in his jumper and tracksuit and Sherlock was briefly worried he may be getting sick before dismissing the thought; if John was becoming ill, he would be showing physical symptoms of it. A bad look and unsure feeling on Sherlock's part was not any kind of diagnosis. This was one of the many reasons he hated to bother with feeling. It was a feeling John was becoming unwell. It was a fact he did not look his usual self.

The morning wore on quietly. Parker exited the flat sometime around ten, a wordless goodbye said with her eyes and a wave of her hand as she walked out the door. John told her she could come back any time she needed to, a pointless offer. Sherlock had the feeling she wouldn't be inside their flat again any time soon. Embarrassment over seeming like the odd child who suffered from nightmares and couldn't sleep without someone nearby. No, more than likely she would just soldier through the nights on her own from now on. She reminded him of John in that aspect - a moment of weakness before quietly continuing through life alone.

John coughed into his hand and shuddered, scrubbing them under the tap first chance he got. An old habit left over from days at med school, where cleanliness was the only option. He didn't feel well but not bad enough to make a fuss over, he thought. Still it was better to be safe than sorry, and he planned on having a quiet day before going out with Sherlock later. He made some tea and settled into the armchair with an old psychology textbook of his. For some reason he felt the need to read over the section on selective mutism. He had told Mrs Hudson he would look into her niece's problem, and he intended on keeping his word.

It soon became obvious however he was sicker than he thought. Around lunchtime Sherlock took one look at him and said "go to bed". An order, not a request. He tried to deny it, insist he was feeling okay, didn't Molly want to see them over a case later anyhow? But Sherlock was determined. John was sick, and that meant he needed rest.

As he was pushed upstairs, he heard the quiet buzz of Sherlock's phone. Probably Molly, wondering where they were. But he could tell from Sherlock's expression as he read the message it was no such thing. Just when Sherlock seemed to have accepted his boredom, Greg Lestrade had to go and text with a case.

"You get in bed - rest for a while - if you feel up to it go downstairs and watch TV later - I'll be back - Lestrade has a case, serial murders but not a serial killer - are those my keys?" Sherlock was rushing about, pulling on his coat, wrapping a scarf around his neck, grabbing the aforementioned keys to shove into his pockets. John watched with faint amusement from where he'd been abandoned on the stairs.

"Don't be silly, I'll come with you."

"No, it's fine. You're sick. Stay home, I'll go on my own."

He didn't think Sherlock going anywhere on his own was much a good idea for the general public, but he felt so awful he really didn't want to protest. So he sighed and told Sherlock not to make any trouble and to text if he was going to be late home.

Sherlock walked out with a grin on his face, unable to contain his excitement. A case. A case, an interesting sounding case. He always enjoyed serial killings but when there was no serial killer involved...he shivered in anticipation, several ideas already fluttering their way through his mind like over-excited butterflies.

As he stepped out onto the street he nearly ran straight into Parker, who was walking home with a bag slung over her shoulder and a notebook in her hand. As she dodged him and continued up the steps, he turned and called her name, an idea springing to mind. It was always good to have someone around to bounce ideas off. "Parker," She stopped, turned and listened, her expression vaguely confused.

"How would you like to come to a crime scene?"


	6. A Case!

The weak London sun warmed their backs as they walked up to the scene, which was very clearly marked out by police tape surrounding the entrance of an alleyway. Sherlock strutted forward like he owned the place, radiating confidence and strength with each step; Parker followed at a slower pace, dodging members of the crowd that had gathered. He lifted the tape up and let her walk through first. Almost immediately they were stopped by a stern looking woman.

"Freak."

"Sergeant Donovan."

They were giving each other mutually hostile looks until Donovan's eyes slid from his and latched on to Parker.

"Who's the girl?" She asked sharply.

"Colleague." His voice was smooth and calm as can be.

"Colleague?" She inspected the girl, visibly amused. "She looks more like one of your worthless street brats."

Parker felt a flash of hurt at this and decided she didn't like this Sergeant Donovan woman at all. She bit her lip, determined not to snap a reply. Six months of silence was not going to be broken by some rude police officer bitch.

Sherlock noticed the look on Parker's face and turned back to Donovan. "It's none of your business if she is. May we go in to the alley?"

"You're going to anyway, Freak, why bother asking?"

She stepped aside and allowed them to continue on, but they'd barely made it four steps when Sherlock stopped and faced her again, looking her up and down with a humoured grin.

"Dear god Donovan. It's not Anderson's, is it?"

"What?" She snapped in reply.

"The baby - oh, you don't know. You think you've got a virus or something similar." He laughed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a ten pound note, stuffing it into her hand. "Go to the chemist down the street and get yourself a test kit. You're going to need it."

Donovan spluttered behind them, at a loss for anything resembling a coherent sentence. As they walked away Sherlock glanced down at Parker, who grinned at him, shaking her head in disbelief.

The officers moved out of the way as he kneeled to inspect the body. White male, around 25, on his way to work. Dead approximately six hours. Killed by trauma to the head, when his skull cracked against the concrete. The body was moved slightly to the left after death, but before the forensic team had arrived - the smeared blood had dried into the ground. Most interestingly however was the symbol cut into the chest. The bloodsoaked shirt had been unbuttoned and someone had (post-mortem) carved a pound sign into the skin, taking much care to do so.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade's authoritative voice cut through his thoughts. "Why is Sergeant Donovan crying?"

"Haven't the faintest idea."

He grinned at Parker, who covered her face with one hand, hiding her smile. Lestrade looked between them, rubbing his temple with one hand and sighing. He decided to drop it. Whatever Sherlock said had probably been some overly done act of vengeance in retaliation for something Donovan had called him. He would speak to them both separately later before he made Sherlock apologise.

"So what have we got?"

Sherlock listed off his findings quickly before asking the one question that most concerned him. "You said serial killings. I need photos of the other victims if you want any information about the killer - or killers. You think there's more than one, yes?"

Lestrade nodded, jotting a few things down before glancing at Parker. "And who's this? Where's John?"

"Sick. This is Parker. She's my John for today."

Lestrade muttered something along the lines of _I bloody well_ _hope not, she's half your age,_ but Sherlock didn't hear as he was busily checking the victim's pockets. Parker looked around, wanting to seem useful. Something caught her eye and she wandered over to the fence that closed off the alley. Caught on the very top was a strip of bloodstained material no bigger than her pinky finger. She reached over and tapped Sherlock's shoulder, pointing at it. He grasped it and pulled it free, examining it carefully before dropping it into an evidence bag.

"Right. Lestrade, the body is going to Bart's, yes?"

"Yes."

"Then I shall meet you there in an hour. There's something I have to look up. Take Parker and leave her with Molly, would you?"

Lestrade went to protest, but the detective was already strolling away, leaving a confused officer and even more confused girl behind. Parker stared at his retreating back with her hazel eyes, wondering where he was going and what he was doing.

"Alright...boys, get the body into a bag and down to Bart's. Donovan, go home, you've got the rest of the day off, we'll discuss it tomorrow when you feel better. Girl," he turned to Parker. "Come with me."

He opened the passenger side door to his car and Parker climbed in, buckling her seatbelt as he closed it behind her. He made his way around to the driver's side, muttering about hopeless consulting detectives and how he wasn't a babysitter damn it. They arrived at the hospital not even ten minutes later. Parker felt chills down her spine as they walked through the cold, white halls, and her dread only intensified once they were down in the morgue.

"Inspector Lestrade, good to see you! Well...not given the circumstances...I was just finishing up on that last body, uh, the next hasn't arri- oh. Who's this?" In Parker's opinion Molly Hooper was far too bright for someone who worked with dead bodies. Molly reminded her of an excitable rodent, a squirrel maybe, and anyone who moved with that much bounce was just strange. Then again, Sherlock was the same around the crime scene, and Parker decided not to to be too quick with her judgement.

"Parker, this is Molly Hooper. Molly, ask Sherlock. He'll be here in about half an hour and he wants Parker here for some reason."

"Oh, okay." Molly smiled at Parker and said goodbye to Lestrade. He left, and she was left alone with an uncomfortable silence and a woman who felt the need to fill it.

She sat down on a chair by the door and watched as Molly worked away, waiting for Sherlock to return. She'd left her notebook at home so she started playing snake on her phone, desperately avoiding eye contact.

It took him forty minutes, but Sherlock did arrive, photographs and evidence bags in hand. He seemed driven, laying out the photos on the table, not even greeting either of the women who watched him. He muttered to himself, scribbling things down, arranging the images across the table. Finally he looked up.

"Well are the two of you going to stand there or are you going to help?"


	7. I Just Want To Sleep

A weak cough passed his lips as he laid motionless in bed. He felt, to put it bluntly, like absolute shit. His fever had spiked in the past hour and every inch of his body seemed to burn, radiating heat like a bright aura. God, he just wanted to sleep, but between the alternating heat and chills and the utter discomfort he had a feeling that wasn't going to happen.

His phone buzzed insistently from the bedside table. His fingers seized it and clutched at it, pulling it towards him with a desperate effort. The thing had been buzzing for the past ten bloody minutes and all he wanted was sleep. He unlocked it. A missed call from Lestrade. Five texts from Sherlock.

_Are you feeling better? SH_

_I hope you're feeling better. Parker offered to cook for you. Molly will be over too. SH_

_I'm not going to be there. Case. SH_

_Are you alright? If you don't reply I will assume something is wrong and notify the appropriate authorities__. SH_

_John. SH_

Christ he could be annoying when he was on a case. He was like a child, excited and rushing about and enjoying himself far too much, acting on impulse and doing as he pleased. John sighed and tapped out a reply, struggling to keep his eyes open.

_I was asleep. Tell Molly and Parker to go home, I just want to sleep. I'm fine._

He dropped the phone beside his pillow and rolled over, closing his eyes. His breathing slowed, his muscles relaxed, and he'd just drifted into that in-between lucid sleep time when another buzz from the phone shocked him back into consciousness.

_Molly and Parker will be over in an hour. You need to eat. SH_

Bastard. Hypocrite. There were a thousand words he had for his flatmate in that moment, a mix of his usual thoughts fueled by feverish fire.

He closed his eyes once more, his mind aimlessly wandering back to the half-asleep thinking. Then a thought hit him. Missed call from Greg Lestrade. Lestrade only ever called if there was something wrong - but he hadn't tried to call again. It could wait until he felt up to it. But for now, the glorious relief sleep had to offer.

An hour later John was being prodded awake. He groaned and begged for just five more minutes like a lazy schoolchild on a Monday morning. The poking stopped and he opened one deep blue eye to find a pair of shockingly hazel eyes glaring back at him. Those eyes were far too offensively sharp for his inattentive mind to comprehend. He blinked and his vision cleared. A pale face, surrounded by hair so bright it was an assault on his sleep-filled eyes. His mind finally cleared enough to make sense of it. Parker was trying to wake him.

She stood before the bed, completely still. He stared up at her with a mix of resentment and surprise. She sighed and started tidying around his bed, moving the phone from his pillow as she placed a glass of water and packet of paracetamol on the bedside table. Parker straightened the blankets and picked his robe off the floor, sitting it on the end of the bed for when he got up. John shifted uncomfortably; he felt incredibly awkward to have this strange girl in his room, tidying things around him, taking care of him in her own way. He was a grown man and she was the niece of his neighbour - there was just something unnatural about it. But as he watched her walk away, he got the feeling this was second nature to her. It seemed Parker Scott was used to taking care of the sick. He glanced to the glass of water. Beside it was a small slip of paper torn from a notebook. In childishly girly writing, she'd written him a note.

_Downstairs making soup. Molly Hooper here also. Come down when you feel up to it + sleep on your side, hardly seem to breathe on your back, thought you were dead. Mr Holmes said to tell you he won't be back until late. -Parker_

John tried not to laugh. Mr Holmes. He didn't think he'd ever heard someone call Sherlock that in his life. He sat up and went to stretch, but his mind went hazy and for a few moments everything went black. It only took a few seconds for him to come around, but he grumbled quietly. John was a doctor and he despised being sick. He pulled himself out of bed, straining from the effort, and wrapped the robe around his body tightly. The material was wonderfully cool against his flushed skin. He reached for the glass of water and took a sip with a single tablet, dropping the packet carelessly aside.

He made his way downstairs slowly. The living room seemed foreign with two women sitting in it - the young red-haired girl and the more mature morgue attendant were in his and Sherlock's chairs respectively. Molly was talking away and Parker hung on every word, nodding, laughing in reply. Molly looked up and gave John a broad smile.

"Well look who's up! Hi there, John. Feeling any better?"

"A bit," he replied. "Not really."

"Well, that's why we're here. By the way, I've been meaning to ask - how did the experiment with the bleach and the hand go?"

"Experiment?" He echoed. "...you know what, I don't even want to know. Ask Sherlock when he gets back."

"Will do. Are you hungry? We made soup."

He shook his head and sat down, relaxing into lounge and closing his eyes. Molly and Parker's strange one-sided conversation continued, the television giving a low buzz of words to punctuate it in the background. The very poorly feeling John Watson drifted back into sleep, soothed by the lullaby of companionship.


	8. Not Good

**He bounded through the house, taking the stairs two at a time and throwing the door open with a gleeful cry. "John! Parker!" he shouted. "I've worked it out!"**

"Parker isn't here," John mumbled into his pillow, hardly even noticing Sherlock's theatrical entrance.

"Why not?"

"She doesn't live here, Sherlock, and you've been gone for two days."

"Oh - yes. Of course."

He looked up at the detective, who stood in the doorway, breathing slowly and staring at the ground. His excitement seemed to have vanished and he'd lost himself in that brilliant mind of his again. John felt a stab of annoyance; he was rarely there physically, and even when he was, there was no telling where his thoughts would be.

"Sherlock, close the door and sit down. What did you work out?"

The door was closed and Sherlock sat like an obedient pup, but he didn't respond to the question. John sighed and got up, moving to sit beside Sherlock. He didn't know what he'd do if this was the beginning of a black mood. He was used to black moods, of course - he had survived through a hundred of them. But he didn't feel like coping with the uncertainty of a black mood right now - Sherlock could be violent and unpredictable, or silent and unmoving. The problem was John wouldn't know which until Sherlock did something.

"You alright?" He asked quietly, touching Sherlock's arm in hopes of getting his attention. He didn't respond, but those cyan eyes turned to John, and the spell over him seem to be broken.

"Yes. Yes, fine. Good actually. Solved the case." He shifted away from John's touch. "It was as I thought, retribution for the leader of a gang. Taking out the gang, leaving a warning. All over money."

"Have you called Lestrade and told him?"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow when he glanced at John, wondering if he actually had to respond to such an obvious question.

"Right. Stupid question."

Apparently not. They grinned at each other as John got up to make himself tea and a coffee for Sherlock. He handed Sherlock the mug and sat back down, opposite him this time.

"Are you feeling better?" The question surprised John, but in a good way. He nodded, leaning back in his chair.

"Much better. I think it was just that bug that's going around. Oh, and by the way, Lestrade wanted me to have a talk with you. What did you say to Sally Donovan in order to make her break down crying?"

Sherlock tried to hide his smile by taking a drink. "I said nothing to make her cry. I just...confirmed her suspicions of what is usually a joyous occasion. Most people are glad to be pregnant, aren't they?"

John choked on his drink, alternating between coughing and laughing until he could finally speak. "Donovan's pregnant? Is it Anderson's?"

"That's what I asked her."

John laughed until tears came to his eyes, spilling his tea in the process. Sherlock's smile widened before he started laughing along. John covered his face with his hands, struggling to breathe through his laughter.

"Christ...you've killed me..."

"Breathe, John, it's not that funny."

Even though they both managed to stop, it only took one look at Sherlock's pleased smirk for John to crack again. He finally paused long enough to think before he shook his head in disbelief. "Sherlock, you can't just go about telling people they're pregnant. It's inappropriate, and wrong, and you probably hurt Donovan's feelings..."

"If she didn't want to get pregnant, she shouldn't have had an affair with Anderson. Though I can't imagine why anyone would want to have an affair with Anderson to begin with..."

"No, I don't suppose I can either." John tried to put on his commanding voice. "But that doesn't matter. You should apologise. As soon as possible."

Sherlock didn't reply, just making a face that conveyed his thoughts clearly. He ran his fingers through his dark curls and stretched, getting out of his seat and staring out the window at the night sky. The stars were hardly visible due to the city's glowing light. His eyes flicked to the street below. Walking down the path, illuminated by the streetlight glow, was a certain redhead girl. She had her head down and had pulled her hood up, and he could tell by the way she was walking she wasn't entirely sober. He turned his head to face John, his smile vanishing.

"Parker's back."

He could tell from Sherlock's tone something wasn't right. "Oh?"

"She doesn't look...well."

John got up and joined him at the window. They watched as Parker attempted to open the door only to drop her keys. She tried to retrieve them only to hit her head and ended up pounding the door in her frustration.

"I'll go let her in. She can sleep it off in here, we'll find the keys in the morning."

He didn't respond, just listened as John made his way downstairs to get the intoxicated girl. Judging from the heaviness of the footsteps coming back up the stairs, John was supporting quite a bit of her weight. When they were inside the flat, Parker stumbled her way to the lounge and shut her eyes tightly, only stopping to clumsily kick her trainers off before collapsing into the soft cushions. John grabbed his blanket and threw it over her.

"Not good."

"A bit not good, yeah."

"What should we do?"

"We'll talk about it with her in the morning."


	9. Blue Lips and Polaroids

When she awoke it took a few moments for her to realise where she was. Her eyes felt gritty, full of sleep. She ran her hand across them in an effort to clear things up, before taking a look around. Horrid wallpaper, a glaringly yellow smiley face, a cluttered room. Parker was in 221B Baker St, and she had no idea how she'd gotten there. The night before, she'd been invited to a party by some old friends. The last thing she could clearly remember was accepting a drink offered by one of those old friends, who now that she thought about it had never been good friends to begin with.

"Good morning."

The deep voice broke her reflections. Sherlock was leaning against the wall to her right, impeccably dressed in a grey suit and purple shirt. His face was devoid of emotion, but she suspected he was angry with her.

"John's not up yet, but when he is we'll be sitting down and talking. Help yourself if you want anything to eat or drink."

Parker wrapped the blanket tightly around her and got up, crossing the room to the kitchen. She made herself a strong coffee, aware he was watching her from his place against the wall. She looked at him and gestured at the coffee in her hand.

"No thank you."

She could still feel his eyes on her as she made her way back to the lounge. Pulling the blanket closer, she stared at the floor, avoiding his eyes. She didn't look again until the thunk on the stairs told her John was up. Her eyes met his as he walked to the fridge, and she squirmed under the heavy gaze.

"Right." John sat across from her, folding his arms across his chest. "Parker, to be quite honest we're disappointed. Your aunt gave us the responsibility of making sure you stayed out of trouble and we trusted that you were mature enough to-"

"John." Sherlock had moved so he was standing beside John, interrupting him with one hand placed on his shoulder. Sherlock's eyes pierced into her. "It won't happen again."

Parker nodded, her brow furrowing into a frown. No. It wasn't going to happen again.

"Good. We've gotten that out of the way." Sherlock lifted a polaroid camera from the table and handed it to her. "I'm assuming you know how to use one of these. I want you both dressed and ready to go in ten minutes. We have a case."

Parker frowned up at him, bewildered; she had thoroughly enjoyed helping on the last case, but she'd not expected it to become a full time kind of thing. John, too, was confused; as Parker went downstairs to change, he pulled Sherlock aside, giving him a questioning look.

"What are you doing?

"It's the only way, John."

"The only way? What are you talking about?"

"The only way we can keep an eye on her. We won't be here to watch her while on a case, so logic says to bring her with us. She'll have fun, we'll have less work to do. It's all fine."

"Sherlock, Parker is a seventeen year old girl, we cannot take her to bloody crime scenes with bodies and murderers and-"

"Are you quite done? You've only got six minutes left to change, or I'll leave without you."

John threw his hands into the air, ranting as he walked up to his room. He was completely ignored by Sherlock who was busily grabbing everything they'd need to investigate. When he came back down, Parker had returned, looking as confused as ever. The camera hung around her neck and she clutched a spiral bound notebook in her hands, a pen jammed into its binding. She removed the pen, flipped it open and scribbled something down before showing it to John.

_Any idea where we're going?_

"Not a clue."

They followed Sherlock out, piling into the back of a cab. She found herself between the two men and glanced at each of them. This was insane. Ridiculous. She had apparently been hired as his own personal crime scene photographer or something, when she'd barely used a camera in her life.

As if he could read her thoughts, he turned his head slightly and quirked an eyebrow at her. "Lestrade's photographer is useless half the time. I need to work with someone who pays attention to detail. I have complete trust you're right for the job - and you will be paid, of course."

Well then. She shrugged. If he wanted a photographer, he had one. John exhaled deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a feeling Lestrade was not going to like this at all.

He was right, of course.

"Sherlock, why does the girl have a camera? You know we can't allow a civilian to-"

"John and I are both civilians," Sherlock was annoyingly smug.

"Hang on, I'm not a civilian. I was in the army."

"You were an army doctor and you're not any more. It doesn't count." John's protest was waved away and Parker watched their exchange with an amused confusion.

"Damn it Sherlock, you've already got your own medical officer, now a photographer too? Why don't you just start up your own little police force while you're at it, solve all the crime in London on your own?"

"I thought I already did that."

John could see the dangerous glint in Lestrade's eyes and could tell he was struggling not to hit Sherlock. He stepped between them, a physical barrier to cease the threat of violence. Lestrade glared at him before the tension left his body; he'd given up. "Do as you please. Just make sure she doesn't get in the way."

John thanked him quietly while Sherlock pulled Parker away. They had a hushed conversation, watching as she took notes, fanned developing photos, and followed Sherlock's every instruction.

"The girl's over eighteen, right?"

He hesitated long enough for Lestrade to have his answer. He groaned, hitting his palm to his forehead in annoyance. "Okay, John, you know what? I'm going to pretend I didn't ask that. Now go, he wants you."

He walked over to where they stood around a battered and bruised body, taking a moment to look away from it, needing to compose himself. The victim was a girl. She lay on the floorboards, white skin glowing under the forensic's lights. Her lips were an ethereal blue, the colour matched by every vein in her body, including a spiderweb of veins across her eyelids. Purple marks covered her skin, circling around her neck in the shape of her attacker's hands. The flimsy dress that hung off her frame had been torn from her skin with obvious haste. She looked to be a little younger than Parker, who seemed to be handling the sight with a stoic indifference. He snapped the white latex gloves over his hands and kneeled to inspect the body.

"Asphyxiation seems the obvious cause of death."

"Very good, John." The sarcastic tone was all John needed to hear to know Sherlock hated the sight of the young girl's twisted body as much as he did.

"The attack was...sexual in nature. She's been here for at least nine hours...defensive wounds suggest she tried to fight him off."

Scratches and bruises covered the skin over her arms with a trickle of blood that had spilled over her lip and dried. John turned his back when he was done. Parker had written down everything he'd said. The only indicator she was uncomfortable was the way her teeth had sunk into her bottom lip.

Sherlock finished everything up with Lestrade, telling him they'd be down at Bart's with their findings. The three of them left in silence, all trying to wipe the image from their minds.


	10. Gone on a Walk

((TW: Attempted rape))

An unlit cigarette dangled from her lips as she scrawled across page after page of lined notebook paper. London had proved inspiring, for a place so seemingly drab...until strings of murders and rapists revealed themselves.

As she took a fresh page she felt someone sit down on the step beside her. She didn't even have to look to know it was him.

"You wouldn't happen to have another of those, would you? I'm absolutely dying for one. The patches aren't helping."

A quick ruffle of noise as she pulled the packet out of her bag, handing it to him without taking her eyes off the notebook. Sherlock flicked the packet open and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it as he set the packet down beside them.

"You don't smoke."

It wasn't a question. He could tell she didn't smoke, and probably never had. But still the cigarette hung from her mouth; still, she carried a packet of the things. With a lighter. Cigarettes, a lighter. Never smoked. Sherlock flicked the ash away, frowning in thought.

"You carry them out of habit. Was he a friend or a lover?"

A dark look crossed her face and she turned away from him. The grip she had on her pen tightened, her knuckles becoming stark white. She continued writing, but with such force she pushed the pen straight through the page. She threw the notebook down on the step as she got up and walked away.

_I need to clear my head. I'll be back later._

She pushed her hood up and kept her head down as she strolled through the streets. The sun was beginning to set off in the distance - it was later than she thought. People were rushing around her, on their way home from busy days working and shopping. The streetlights flickered on as the last of the sun's rays gave their farewell to the day.

She continued walking, distractedly rolling up her sleeves for something to do. The things they'd seen that day...the thought one human could do that to another was almost too much. Lost in thought, she didn't realised how far she'd gone. Parker stopped and looked around. She was utterly lost. The shabby buildings were unfamiliar and panic rose inside her. Her breath caught in her throat as she spun around, trying to retrace her steps.

"Need any help, love?" A gravelly voice sounded from somewhere to her right. A man stepped out of the shadows with a wolflike smile that showed far too many teeth. She shook her head, stepping backwards, fumbling in her pockets for phone.

She'd left the damned thing at home. He grabbed at her arm, nails digging into the bare flesh. Before she could pull away, he had her pinned against the bricks, his breath hot in her face. He pulled her into the alley and roughly pushed her onto the concrete. She landed awkwardly, scraping her arm against the ground.

"Not putting up much a fight, are you?" That gravelly voice hissed in her ear. "I like that."

He pushed her skirt up and pulled at her tights and wasn't expecting it at all when her fist made contact with his jaw. He leaned back, sent reeling by the hit. The next hit was a kick to his nose. Blood spilled across her tights and boots as she scrambled backwards and pulled herself to her feet, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst. He staggered towards her, his own fist hitting her cheek and knocking her aside. The taste of blood was bitter across her tongue. She found herself pinned again with a sharp crack to her skull against the brick. Stars swam before her eyes and she kicked out at him, a startled grunt telling her she'd made her mark.

"Oi! What's going on over there?!"

Her attacker swore and sprinted away. Parker tried to stand, stumbling forward before she fell. She was aware of gentle hands on her and a voice asking if she was alright, telling someone else to call an ambulance, before everything become fuzzy and grey, fading to black.


	11. Patient

Sergeant Sally Donovan wasn't having a good day. In fact, it was a bad day. A bad week. A bad day in a string of bad days that had started a few months ago. So when she was called down to the hospital to interview a victim, she was relieved to have something to distract her from the miserable silence of the squad room. Rarely did anyone talk to her these days with everything that had been going on. Everyone knew about her and Anderson but most were too polite to say anything, so they refrained from speaking to her at all. Holmes of course had been right. And now with the baby and - oh god, she was stressed. All she wanted was a bloody drink, but that wasn't on the cards.

A mediocre coffee in a paper cup did nothing to satisfy her caffeine craving. She met with a frazzled-looking nurse outside one of the hospital's small side rooms, where the patient had been placed out of the way. She took a long drink before asking the obvious question - what could she be told about the victim?

"Nothing really. Young woman, out for a walk at night, attacked by a gent in an alley. She was found by a couple of lads on their way out, they chased the man away and called it in. We don't know her name and she hasn't said word. Doctor says she's in shock."

A quick look through the window told Donovan all she needed to know. Sitting inside the room was a familiar red-haired, bruised, banged-up girl. She thanked the nurse and pulled out her phone, dialling the number quickly.

"Inspector? You'll be wanting to call John Watson. The patient is Freak's little friend."

Putting the phone away she pushed open the door. The girl glanced up, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. Well, eye. The other was swollen, surrounded by a nasty bruise. A split lip, scraped arms, gravel rash on her hands - by the look of things, the girl had a rough night.

"Hey there." Sally tried to sound kindly and casual, but only her face gave away how she really felt, exhausted and depressed. She sat in one of those horrid plastic chairs and smiled at Parker, handing over her notebook and a pen. She figured if the girl was in shock and couldn't speak, she could perhaps write. "How are you feeling?"

_Fine. I want to go home._

"I understand, but I need to interview you first. Can you tell me your name?"

Parker glared at her with such strength it was slightly frightening. "Alright, if you'd prefer not to, that's okay for now. Can you tell me what happened?"

_It's not that I'd prefer not to, it's that I'd rather you keep thinking of me as worthless street brat._

Sally visibly flinched. She hadn't really meant it when she'd said that. It had been a long day, she'd not been feeling well for obvious reasons, and to top it off Greg had gone and called some infuriating bastard who thought he could do her job better than she could. "I'm sorry about that. I didn't - look, I need to know what happened."

_I went for a walk. A man attacked me. It was dark, I didn't see his face. He ran off when a guy showed up, I passed out. End of story._

"I have to ask - in his attack, did he...?"

Parker shook her head before the sentence was finished, then looked her up and down. Donovan sensed she was being judged and couldn't help but feel uncomfortable.

_Have you decided what to do with the baby?_

"That's not what we're here to talk about. Can you tell me anything else about the attack?"

_No. Your maternal instinct sucks._

"There's nothing else you remember?"

Parker circled "no" aggressively. Sally decided to drop it. The chances of her attacker being the same as the victim before were slim, but it had been worth a shot. They both jumped when the door opened suddenly and John Watson walked in, followed closely by Lestrade.

"Are you okay?" John kneeled beside the chair and started examining the cuts and bruises on Parker's arms. She pulled away from his touch like she'd been shocked, until she proper looked at him and relaxed. She nodded in response to his question, holding out one scraped hand for him to see.

"Did she say anything?"

Sally held out the notebook with Parker's replies. "This is everything she's...said. She won't speak to me." She turned so she could see the army doctor, who was standing with his arm around the girl protectively. "Where's Freak?"

"Sherlock," Lestrade emphasised the name, giving her one of his no-nonsense looks, "is currently working on this morning's case. If the girl's killer was the same as whoever tried it on Parker, he probably isn't going to stop until he's found."

"Right." Sally was obviously tense at the mention of the case. It had shaken them all up. It was always horrible, something like that, and while older cops always insisted it was something you got used to everyone knew no decent human being ever could.

"The girl's a minor, isn't she? We need to release her into the custody of a relative. Greg," She was stern as he went to protest. "I know you make exceptions for Holmes and Watson but this would be downright irresponsible."

Lestrade sighed, covering his mouth with one hand as he thought it through. "The thing is, Sally...the girl's been left on her own, just for a few days like, with Sherlock and John supposed to be keeping an eye on her. So at the moment-"

"Call child services then, it's that simple!"

"She's seventeen, she's not a child!"

"I don't care, I really don't. You can hardly tell me Freak and Doctor Watson are fit for this kind of thing, they can barely take care of themselves, let alone a minor!"

"Because you'd know so much about being a fit parent."

Donovan froze in place, her mouth hanging open in shock. The words had hit home and a stab of pain shot through her chest. Her arms crossed over her body protectively as she fought the tears forming in her eyes. He was right, of course he was right. She was utterly useless.

"Shit- Sally, that's not what I - god, I'm sorry." He reached out, trying to pull her close, but she shrugged him off. Her face hardened and she backed away.

"Don't, Greg. Just don't," She snapped. "Let the freak take the girl. I don't care." And with that, Sergeant Sally Donovan turned and marched away.


	12. A Show of Emotion

Sherlock didn't even look up from the casebook when he finally got home. A sleepy John dropped his keys on the table with a clatter, rubbing his face with one hand and yawning. He grabbed an apple from the bowl on the table and walked up to his room without bothering to greet Sherlock. He knew he hated to be interrupted or distracted by trivialities while on a case so thought it best to leave him be, at least for now.

Parker was downstairs in 221A. She'd used a pen and the back of one hand to insist she was okay and would be fine alone in the flat, and had promised to come up immediately if anything was wrong. John blamed himself for her injuries, really. So far he was doing an absolutely horrible job of keeping an eye on things like he'd sworn he would. He had a feeling Mrs Hudson would beat him senseless once she learned of everything that happened over the past week, and she'd have every reason to. He sighed and took a bite of the apple, enjoying the crisp, sweet flavour. Right now it was eleven-thirty at night and all he wanted to do was relax and have a good sleep - the mess at the hospital with Lestrade having to convince them to release Parker had been exhausting. Donovan had vanished in it all after a bit of a confrontation - he had a feeling that wasn't the last he'd heard on that matter.

Just as he felt himself being lulled into the peaceful embrace of sleep, his phone gave a sharp trill. Sherlock had been messing with the message tones again, obviously. He did it sometimes for a laugh when he was bored. John groaned and turned his back to the phone, ignoring it. But it continued on insistently, so he rolled back over and grabbed it.

An unknown number was trying to call him. He glanced at the clock. Well after midnight. No one would call this late without reason.

"Hello?"

"Doctor Watson? It's Sergeant Donovan. There's been a shooting."

"What?" John sat up in bed and tossed the blankets aside. Donovan wouldn't call him unless it was important, unless something had happened, unless Sherlock wasn't picking up his phone.

"Lestrade was hit and he's currently in surgery. I'm just calling to let you know...and I'll be taking over the department while he's out, until Dimmock arrives. Has Freak got anything new on the case?"

"I - I haven't checked. Sorry, did you say Greg was shot?" He felt quite surprised and vaguely irritated. Apparently he was in for another sleepless night.

"Yes. Look, I'm willing to work with you two, but you have to cooperate, alright?" The voice on the other end was tense.

A thought seemed to click in his head. "The shooting had something to with the case, didn't it?"

"Yes." A pause. "I want to fix this as soon as possible."

"Understood."

"I want Freak down at the yard before two."

"I'll let him know."

John dropped the phone onto the mattress beside him, pinching the bridge of his nose with a huff and asking himself for the thousandth time why he'd ever wanted this life of action. He got up and pulled on his jacket. As he walked downstairs he zipped it up tight, suddenly becoming aware of haunting music that filled the silence. Long, gentle notes danced through his mind and he slowed down, appreciating this rare display of Sherlock's musical gift. Usually the late night violin sessions were something upbeat and bright, nothing more than noise to accompany supernova thoughts - thoughts so brilliant and burning bright it must hurt - but this was different. A darkness seemed to be contained within the detective's mind, and John knew he was playing for every killer he'd ever missed, every victim he'd ever failed.

He truly despised to interrupt the musical release of emotion, but Donovan had asked for them to arrive within the hour. Still, he stayed quiet and watched, supporting his weight against the wall. Just watched his detective play until the music wound down and slowly faded back into silence. Sherlock turned in shadow, his silhouette giving nothing away. The instrument was lowered with the bow placed aside. He didn't even have to say anything; the detective knew and shrugged into his coat, looping the scarf around his neck. "What happened?"

"Lestrade's been shot."

A flicker of feeling crossed Sherlock's face, and then it was gone. They walked downstairs with Sherlock tapping out a message on his phone, holding the door open with a gesture for him to go through. John didn't bother asking who he was texting. It was probably Mycroft, or maybe even Molly. He didn't expect it to be Parker Scott. He didn't even know Sherlock had the girl's number.

_Going to Scotland Yard. May not be back for a while. Stay home and recover. Do not leave Baker St. SH_

Parker tiredly pulled her mobile close, reading over the message with heavy eyes. Every bruise, every cut, all the places she'd been hit seemed to throb with unholy pain. She grasped her quilt and tugged it close to her body, savouring the unnecessary warmth. The phone fell from her fingertips as sleep took its merciful hold over her, dulling the ache in her weary bones. A dreamy half-smile stayed plastered on face, though, and for the first time in days she was too tired to feel unsafe at 221 Baker St.


	13. The Reveal

Lestrade looked insignificant in the mess of bed and wires and beeping, humming machines. He was in the centre of it all, the very things keeping him alive, but with his pasty skin and still form it was almost as if he was bring swallowed by the equipment that swarmed his body. Each laboured breath he took through a respirator sounded painfully fragile, as if it would take no more than a slap to his face to stop him breathing completely.

So far nobody had come to visit aside from Sally Donovan, who'd desperately clung to his hand when they wheeled him in. Donovan had been taken and forced to change out of her bloodstained clothing, wrapped up tight in a shock blanket and sent on her way. Now she watched him with hawklike dedication, on her third cup of coffee, occasionally checking her phone for the time. She'd have to leave within the next ten minutes if she wanted to get back at the Yard in time to meet with Holmes. Her mind was still ringing with sharp words of her and Lestrade's last conversation. Sally knew he hadn't meant what he'd said the way it seemed, but she'd overreacted and given him the silent treatment anyway. And now he was unconscious. In a hospital bed. The doctors still didn't know if he was going to make it through the night, even if surgery had been successful.

"Sergeant Donovan?" Her gaze flicked briefly to the door where a young nurse stood before returning to the sickly DI Lestrade. "Sergeant, you're going to have to leave soon. We'll call the moment he wakes up, but you can't stay here."

"Is he going to wake up?"

"Pardon?"

Her voice turned bitterly sharp. "Is he going to wake up? Can you tell me that for sure? Can you swear to me Greg Lestrade is going to wake up and be completely, totally, one hundred percent fine?"

"...Ma'am, I'm afraid you're going to have to leave now. We will call when he wakes up. And Sergeant," The doe-eyed nurse gave her a long look as she walked past. "Just have faith and he will."

Donovan snorted as she trudged down the gleaming hospital corridor. Faith. It was a load of rubbish. Faith had never gotten her anything in life. Belief that things were going to be okay stopped things from being okay - if you got complacent with the idea a problem would fix itself, nobody would ever do anything in order to fix it. She certainly hadn't become a detective sergeant by sitting around believing she would. No, she had worked, showed her competency, her ability to solve problems.

Another gulp of cold coffee before she threw the paper cup away, still half-full. Hospital coffee was some of the worst in the world, just as bad as the crap they served at the café across the road from her flat. If she was going to satisfy her caffeine addiction it would be with something hot and rich that actually tasted of coffee, but that could wait until she was back at the Yard.

Her car had been left at the scene, or probably driven back by one of the constables. Still she currently had no ride, do she hailed a cab. Crawling inside the warm car she struggled not to break down, instead asking to be taken to New Scotland Yard with a forced composure. It didn't take long - they couldn't be any more than ten minutes away - but still she used the time to close her eyes and take a quick break.

She was reluctant to leave the little closed-off reality the cab had offered, but she got out and paid the driver, pulling her jacket close as she made her way upstairs. Inside, the building was abuzz. The crime rate had been steadily rising but it seemed another disaster had struck while she was out. Officers were rushing about, calling each other, leading witnesses to be interviewed, and grabbing at phones that were ringing off the hook. For a few moments the Sergeant felt out of her depth before she squared her shoulders and strode into her unit. Right now, she didn't have time to be unsure or weak. She was in charge until Dimmock arrived. And Greg being shot did not mean she could slack off and let their people screw up this case when the lives of young girls - and seasoned detectives, apparently - depended on it.

First things first. Some decent caffeine.

As she savoured the perfection of her first decent cup of coffee all day, Holmes and Watson arrived, walking in sync and looking unreasonably lively considering the time of night. She watched them from over the top of her mug, her eyes narrowing into an intimidating glare. She was taking none of Sherlock's inscrutable bullshit today. This was her case, and she (well, Lestrade) had invited him to consult on it, not solve it. That was all. There would still be proper evidence and analysis and he was not going to take charge.

"Good morning," his liveliness extended to his voice as well and he grinned at her, those pale green-blue eyes of his lighting up. He was carrying a thick book she'd seen before. Sherlock called it his casebook and inside he kept notes on every case he worked on with the Yard.

"Morning." The iciness in her voice was obvious to both men, who shared a cautious glance. John had already given him a long lecture in being nice to Donovan while they worked with her, and had even asked for him to avoid insulting Anderson. Still as he looked her up and down he couldn't help but notice a few things.

"Sergeant, don't you think you should stop for a minute and eat something?" John wasn't sure, but he thought there might be genuine concern in Sherlock's voice. If he was right (of course he was right), every doctoring instinct John had told him that if Donovan didn't sit down and eat something it would drive him mad for the rest of the night.

"I'm fine." Her tone, and every inch of her body language, was giving the very clear message of _back off_. Sherlock dropped his casebook in front of her with a shrug; it wasn't his business if she didn't eat, and it would be hypocritical of him to tell her to do so. He could understand the appeal of not eating while on a case. John, on the other hand, was not so quick to drop the matter.

"Look, I understand it's not any of my business, but you can't just drink coffee and not eat while you're pregnant." He lowered his voice. "It will hurt you and the baby and make the morning sickness a thousand times worse."

Her expression became absolutely arctic when she turned to Sherlock. "Are you capable of keeping that mouth of yours shut?"

An awkward silence settled over them as they worked. Sherlock said things; John took note of things Sherlock said; Donovan reviewed evidence and photographs of crime scenes, sometimes seeking Sherlock's opinion, but mostly not. After two hours of this Sherlock slammed his casebook down, standing straight and glaring at the hall outside. Sally and John both jumped, Sally dropping a file in her surprise.

"What is going on?" She snapped, reaching over to gather the spilled papers.

"Why are they making so much noi- Oh. Oh," Sherlock seemed to have an epiphany. "Turn on the news."

John gave Sally a quizzical look as he switched on the television. A report was starting just as they did.

_A string of violent crime and gang violence has today been linked to a new group calling themselves the Chaos. Currently we have no information about the activities of this gang but received this footage just half an hour ago._

The scene on the screen changed to a masked individual in a black hoodie. A raspy voice sounded from behind the mask.

_We control this city. We are vengeance. We are your anarchy. We are the Chaos. Before this day ends we will have the Met in a panic._

_Lock up your daughters._

"Sergeant Donovan!"

"I saw it!" She shouted back, recognising Dimmock's voice as she turned the news off. "You two stay here and keep working. I'll be back."


	14. Down

New Scotland Yard was thrown into chaos. If things had seemed frenzied before, now they were at positively ridiculous heights. There was a demand called out to find the news station, the tape, the footage, to get the best investigators in, no I don't care it's four in the morning, where's Lestrade, still in hospital, shit, answer the phone, who the hell authorised this. In the centre of it all was a longsuffering Donovan, coffee in hand, having to shout to make herself heard over the din. Dimmock stood by her side, ordering detectives to go out with the forensic unit - another body had been found.

"Sherlock? Should we go out an help?"

"We were told to stay in here."

John nodded slowly, picking up one of the case files from a nearby desk and skimming through it. He looked up again at the hectic officers outside, his eyes following their movements. They darted about, reminding him of the tiny pigeons in the park. In his vague musing he half expected two of them to pounce on a file or form and fight over it like it was a breadcrumb. This didn't happen, obviously; instead, a shouting match erupted over a set of phone records that seemed to have vanished from one DC's desk. Sherlock stood with those very phone records in his hand, trying not to smile as he surveyed them. The shouting match outside turned violent; Sally Donovan was forced to seperate the two before her steely eyes turned on Sherlock.

"Freak!" She barked, pushing the two quarreling constables out of her way. "Get out here!"

He obliged, sauntering out with a calm disposition. That smug smile had appeared on his face again. John followed, arms folded as he watched events unfold. The video had been disquieting. Not frightening or scary, but somehow just wrong. He wasn't frightened by it, obviously, but John had a feeling things were going to be getting very bad, very soon.

"We've got an ABH over in Lambeth, what should I tell-"

"Not our division! Tyler, go downstairs and tell them we need-"

Donovan waved her hand in the direction of Tyler, a confused-looking constable who willingly followed her command without even listening to the end of it. She got up in Sherlock's face and snatched the phone records out of his hand. "These. Are mine. You do not take anything from anyone's desk without my express permission. Do you understand?"

His face remained passive, the tiniest hint of his satisfied smirk visible. John bit the inside of his cheek, quietly praying Sherlock wouldn't give one of his usual smart answers. Instead, to his relief, he merely nodded, before pulling the records from her firm hold and smoothing them out. "John," he called over his shoulder as he walked away. "I've places to be. Go check on the girl, would you?"

John sighed. Of course, he had no use here. As usual. He was heavily reminded of a character in a similar situation from his favourite show. He gathered his things to leave, muttering "I'm not the tin dog," under his breath. It was fine, though, he could hopefully catch a couple of hours sleep while waiting for Sherlock to get back, or a text, whichever came first.

The streets were quiet as he walked. A glance at his watch told him he wouldn't be likely to get a cab at this hour, so he kept walking. It wasn't that far back to Baker St, really. Maybe a thirty minute walk and he didn't have anything better to do. He became aware of someone behind him but knew better than to turn and look. Instead, he flicked his collar up, put his head down and continued onwards, using the reflection in windows to gauge the location of his shadow. Things went quiet again though, and he made the mistake if relaxing.

CRACK!

A fist made contact with his jaw. Army training kicked in and he avoided the next punch, his hand curling into a fist aimed at his assailant's nose. A few more guts and the idiot was on the ground. John crouched, turning the body over. Just a young lad, probably trying to prove something to his mates. The kid was groggy as he came to and John pulled him to his feet.

"I'll kick ya face in," the youth slurred. "Go on, get, let's go."

"I'd like to see you try. Not concussed are you? Good, you can stay here until your friends are around to fix you up."

"You're a bastard!" The kid stumbled after him and hit the ground. Not concussed, but something was wrong. John ignored his shouts as he walked away, until-

"The Chaos is going to destroy you! The Chaos is going to destroy us all!"

John turned on his boot heel, spinning around and fixing on the youth with a fiery glare. "What did you just say?"

"The Chaos has us all in its hold. London town is burning down." Unholy, spine chilling laughter filled the night. "London town is burning down. London town is burning down. London town-"

His mobile was out and he'd dialled 999 before he even really knew what was going on. He explained the situation to the operator and was hardly surprised to find that there were few services available at that moment. The woman on the other end of the line apologised profusely and requested he take the boy to the nearest local hospital himself.

He gathered the struggling teen into his bearlike arms and half-carried, half-lead him through the streets until he mercifully found a cab to drive them.

The entire time, the same five words were incoherently babbled from the lad's mouth.

London town is burning down. London town is burning down. London town is burning down. London town is burning...


	15. That's My Girl, Little Red

The wail of sirens woke her before the alarm did. She sat up in bed and checked the time with sleep-filled eyes. Five a.m. About time she got up anyway. It took just a few minutes to pull on some clothes and lightly dust concealer over her bruised face, hardly masking the marks; still, it was nearly six when she left the flat.

The street was clear and mostly noiseless as she began to walk, but still the high-pitched sirens persisted from somewhere in the distance. This sound, while commonplace for much of London, told Parker more than she needed to know. Things had started falling, and she was expected to join them.

It took twenty minutes until she found herself in the very street she needed. Mostly deserted aside from a few unsavoury figures, whose catcalls were easy enough to ignore. She strode purposefully to the doors of a seemingly abandoned hall and knocked. The door creaked open and a scruffy face peered at her, shielding his eyes from the dawn glare.

"Er- oh. 'Ello, love." He turned to someone behind him. "Oi, Sir, your girl's 'ere."

Parker trailed behind him, her eyes having to adjust to the dimness inside. She was greeted by a woop and a rib crushing embrace from a young boy, hurting her battered body in more ways than she thought possible. She ruffled his hair with an affectionate smile before her eyes found the man she'd come to see.

"Red," he drawled, gesturing to the chair beside him. "Do please sit."

She took her place beside him, sitting with her back straight, and tilted her head backwards to give the illusion of confindence. He gave her a Cheshire cat's grin before he returned his attentions to the crowd inside the hall. Nobody spoke, but she felt envious eyes on her; the men in the hall were annoyed she, Red, was already in such a "high" position. One opened his mouth to speak before he was elbowed roughly by a friend; nobody argued with Sir's decisions.

"Very well." His voice was smooth as silk. "Before we begin, has anyone got a smoke?"

There was a flurry of activity as everyone patted at their pockets, searching for a packet; Parker wordlessly removed hers from her shirt pocket and flicked it open, offering it to him. He took one with a smile, and before it had even reached his lips she'd lighted it. He leaned back into his chair, content, a wisp of grey smoke curling from his lips and into the air. He patted her head gently as though she was his favourite obedient dog.

"Right then. I'm sure we all saw the spectacular workmanship of the boys on that tape before it was sent away."

This statement was met with cheer and applause, with the boy who'd hugged Parker - his name was Jacky - cheering loudest. Four of the men didn't cheer, sheepishly shuffling their feet with modest grins, both proud and embarrassed. Parker clapped slowly, appreciating the bright attitude that had come over the dim hall, but not the noise. She gave him a pointed look and he called for the applause to stop, tapping the ash from his cigarette with a careless move of his hand. The cheering died down and the hall was filled with silence, aside from the occasional cough or movement of feet.

"Yes, we all agree it was brilliant. And with the masses out doing what they do best," this was punctuated by a malevolent grin, "Scotland Yard will soon fall."

There was a ripple of conversation through the small crowd and another call for silence before one of the younger men raised a hand, a request to speak. "Sir, we was thinking-"

"You don't do that often, McFadden, so I suggest you stop before you do yourself an injury." Uncertain laughter ran through the group and McFadden ruffled his hair nervously. But he nodded, and McFadden continued on, the previous shaky confidence lost.

"We was thinking, sir, what with all the crime about thanks to the lads, that the hospitals are going to be full."

"That they will." An dip of his head invited McFadden to continue.

"Well, it's like, the hospitals will be full yeah? So there won't be nobody to fix us up if one of us gets hurt. We was thinking, maybe it'd be an idea to get us a doctor, in the ranks."

"Red, what do you think?" He turned, obviously thinking over McFadden's suggestion. Another curl of smoke billowed across the air. He exhaled slowly, visibly annoyed her full attention wasn't on him.

Her eyes were on young Jacky, who gazed at her with adoring eyes. His mess of dirty blonde curls were ruffled again by her hand before she returned back to the conversation at hand. Parker nodded, brushing her red hair back. She'd hardly heard the question but knew it didn't matter. He'd already made up his mind.

"For once, McFadden, not a bad idea. Not at all. We'll look into it." His eyes returned to Parker, brushing over her bruised face and cut up hands. He knew, immediately, what had happened. "Who dared to lay a hand on my girl?"

The question was met with silence, but nobody was willing to own up to the cause of her injuries. Parker's head snapped up and she tore her gaze away from little Jacky, shaking her head desperately to tell him it didn't matter. He ignored her, instead looking over the crowd with narrowed eyes. One face stood out, a face with a bruised and broken nose.

"Tyson Cook. One of our older recruits. Cook, did you attack little Red while she was out last night?"

"Y-yes sir." The tension in the room had risen and the crowd parted, leaving Tyson Cook at his mercy. "Thought she was just another tramp, sir."

"Is that so? You thought our dear Red was just another tramp?" He pulled a handgun and loaded it, each click it made emphasising the next sentence. "I see she did quite a number on your nose. Does that hurt, Cook?"

"Yes, sir." He straightened, resigning himself to his fate. A single shot broke the silence of the room and Cook's form crumpled to the floor. The body was dragged away and he smiled at Parker, his little Red, cupping her cheek with one hand.

"Well done, my girl. What a hit that must have been - it looked as though you broke his nose."

She nodded, accepting the praise, and pulled a trembling Jacky into her arms, hiding the view of the body from him. He buried his head into her shoulder and she held on tight, close as she could. All she wanted to do was protect what little innocence the child had left.


	16. To Work!

The hot water poured over her body, enveloping her with steam. Parker scrubbed at her skin, trying to wash away the scent of smoke and the gritty feeling meetings at the hall always gave her. She shuddered, letting the water stream through her hair and over her skin, and avoided flinching whenever it hit a scrape or open cut. The water was good over her aching muscles and bruises, relieving her of some of the pain. Finally she felt clean enough to step out, wrapping herself tightly in a fluffy, deliciously warm towel, before pulling on her most comfortable clothes. She didn't bother to check her mobile before crawling into bed, finding solace in the light sheets with her head buried into the wonderfully soft pillow. This was better than any feeling in the world, the feeling of being safe, secure and stable, the place where the delicate hope things would be okay still existed. When her phone rang it was an unwelcome interruption, but she picked it up (cursing silently all the while, wondering if she had enough money to replace it should she throw it at the nearest wall) and answered it without a word.

"Parker, it's me. Your aunt. Everything alright, love?"

She froze for a moment. Did she speak? Answer the question? What could she do, say, how was she supposed to...

"Still silent I see." Mrs Hudson chuckled and she relaxed. "Just calling to let you know I won't be back for another week. Love you, sweetheart. Just call or text if you need!"

Parker hung up and pulled herself out of bed. She hated that useless, lazy feeling that came with sitting about all day. It was time to do something - she just didn't know what. She glanced down at the phone. Nine in the morning, the day was young. She could do anything today. She noticed there was one unread message and opened it, hoping it would contain an opportunity to do something.

_Need you down at New Scotland Yard. Bring the photographs, camera and notebook. Go into my flat and bring the blue notebook also. SH_

Just as she finished reading the message, the phone dinged and another appeared.

_Also bring food if possible. SH_

Shoving the phone into her pocket, she left the room and began gathering everything asked for. Throwing the camera and notebook into an old bag, she slung it over her shoulder before raiding the fridge. Within minutes she'd made a few sandwiches out of a smattering of fridge items and a loaf of bread, wrapped them in cling film and added them to the near-full bag, jogging upstairs to grab the faded blue notebook from the coffee table. It joined the cluttered collection inside the bag and she was out the door and had hopped into a cab as quick as can be.

New Scotland Yard was an imposing place, all angles and corners. She bounded up the stairs with the bag swinging behind her, and at the top stood the great figure of Sherlock Holmes, who now that she thought about was just as imposing as the building and made up of as many angles. He greeted her with a casual grin she suspected was fake and lead her up to the unit he was working with.

"Sergeant Donovan," he called, taking the bag from her hand. An angry-looking Sally Donovan appeared, setting her coffee down on a nearby desk.

"What is it, freak, I've not got time for any of your-" She jumped as he threw a sandwich through the air, awkwardly reaching forward to catch it in her fingers. For a few moments it was stared at like it was an alien thing, before she looked between the two of them, Sherlock Holmes and the girl, and gave them a very surprised-sounding "thankyou." She unwrapped it slowly, suspiciously, worried for a moment it was some kind of experiment. As if he knew what she was thinking, Sherlock leaned forward and in her ear murmured "I'm not going to poison a pregnant woman so you _can_ eat it."

She was forced to eat quickly, exchanging notes with Holmes before he was off again, the girl following him like a lost lamb. He talked very animatedly about the cases, his hands flying through the air as he spoke, adding an expression to his words she hadn't seen before. As she returned to work a breathless John Watson arrived, supporting himself on the doorframe as he took steady breaths.

"Shooting...outside, officers hit, buildings going into lockdown. Have you seen Sherlock?"

"What?" Donovan rose to her feet, a sense of dread and alarm stirring inside her.

"I don't have time to explain, have you seen Sherlock?" When she didn't answer, instead just staring at him blankly, he found his temper wearing thin. "Damn it, Donovan, all I want to know is if Sherlock's okay!"

"John." The man himself appeared from nowhere, a pale spectre followed by a dark shadow, the redhead dressed in black. "I'm fine, I made it back inside before the building went into lockdown. Call Molly Hooper, tell her to-"

"I'm sorry," Donovan cut in loudly, having found her voice. "What is going on?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, muttering about time-wasting, uninformed, inattentive police, while Parker choked back a laugh. John shot them both an irritated look and told them to shut it before turning to the sergeant, ready to explain.

"There's a group outside, firing shots everywhere. A few went out to stop them and were hit. After that they went for the building. Everyone outside scattered, so far only two bystanders have been injured, but the people are still trying to get in. We're stuck in here until we get backup." Still slightly breathless he faced Sherlock again, nothing but concern on his face. "Are you sure you're fine? And you, Parker?"

"John." The deep voice was uncharacteristically caring. "We're both alright. Nothing more than a scare."

Sally Donovan quirked an eyebrow as she looked between them, wondering if she'd misjudged things between the two men. John caught her eye and shook his head; it wasn't like that. She shrugged, obviously not believing him, but left it. This time it was Parker's turn to roll her eyes as she tapped on the notebook's hard cover, reminding them all why they were there.

"Right, yes. In the words of the Doctor, allons-y," John declared as they set off to do their work.

"You watch that show far too much," Sherlock muttered in his ear, uncomfortably close.

"Oh, do shut up."

They both smiled.


	17. Lost in Thought

The lockdown lasted well into the day. The four of them stood at the window, observing as the armed unit swarmed the attacking party. A few more shots were fired - John couldn't help but wince when he saw another bystander take a nasty hit, the doctor in him itching to be down there fixing things - before the group were taken into police custody. John frowned and turned to Sally. "Is if really such a good idea to bring them inside when this was their target to begin with?"

"We know what we're doing," was her brusque reply. Her brown eyes were distant, unfocused, until something seemed to come over her. She reached forward and pulled down the blinds, blocking their view of the scene below, the fallen bodies and stained pavement. She left the office, calling for them to continue their work on the serial rape-and-murder cases, before she returned to her role as Sergeant Donovan, shouting orders and taking any remaining witnesses to be interviewed. Nobody dared interrupt her, especially not DI Dimmock; he knew better than to cut in on her work when she had that tenacious look about her. Dimmock left her to it, opening the door to the cluttered haven Sherlock Holmes had created for himself. Dimmock quite liked the consulting detective, to be honest. Even if he was completely tactless, he was utterly brilliant and his consultation in their cases was greatly appreciated. Sherlock didn't acknowledge the arrival of the inspector. His eyes were closed with fingers pointed under his chin, lost in thought or perhaps finding his solution. The ever-reliable John Watson worked around him, studying the photographs with great attention to detail and writing down any similarities noticed between the bodies. Finally, the cross-legged, redhead teenager dressed in black was reading page after page of notes, some in her own childishly loopy writing, some in Sherlock's thin lettering, and even a few neatly printed with John's steady hand. Four highlighters sat beside her and she diligently striped lines of writing in a rainbow of colours, adding her own notes to a notebook in her lap. Tearing out the notebook page, she stapled four highlighted pages to it and dropped them into Sherlock's lap, taking the blue notebook from beside him and returning to her place on the floor.

"Thank you, Parker," Sherlock murmured, opening his eyes at last. Still he didn't react to Dimmock's presence, flicking through the five pages in his hand, expression unreadable. After a few moments John looked up with a start. "Oh, hello."

"How's it all going?" Dimmock couldn't help but smile. His eyes seemed to search the room and he removed one hand from his pocket, running it through his dark hair, suddenly feeling out of place in the crowded little room that was filled with activity and ruffling paper as those inside worked away.

"Good, yeah, pretty good," John nodded, gesturing with the pen in his hand. "Just looking over some of these. Is the lockdown over yet?"

"Just finished, they're on the way up now. Sent the bodies over to St Bart's...have you seen Donovan? She's frantic. The stress of it all can't be much good on...well, you know."

"Good luck getting her to take some time off. She's in love with her work."

"And Anderson." Both men chuckled, ignoring the dark look Sherlock was giving them for unnecessarily speaking, especially over idle gossip. "Well, I'll let you get back to it. Do try to keep out of Sally's way, she's on a rampage out there."

He left and John sat opposite Sherlock, taking a stack of papers (mostly coroner's reports) to review. The room became filled with silence once more, only interrupted by the occasional ruffle of papers. They worked through the day, Sherlock mostly just thinking with his eyes closed, not even waking when Parker and John stopped for lunch. Nobody noticed when the sun dipped below the buildings outside, or when the sky faded from blue to pink to blue again, but this was the dark of the night sky. The only other sign time was passing was the stiffness of their muscles and the heaviness of their eyes. Sometime in the evening, there was a soft thud as a few notebooks dropped from Parker's lap. John kneeled and gathered them in his arms, taking a few sheets of paper held loosely between her fingers. As he stood, he noticed her head had lolled to her shoulder; she'd nodded off. Only then did he realise how late it had gotten. Throwing Sherlock's coat over the sleeping girl, he placed the notebooks down and roused Sherlock from his thinking state.

"Come on, then. Any ideas?" John shook him by the shoulder, trying to get his attention.

"Several," Sherlock's low tone thrummed through the room. "Let's go, there's somewhere I want to investigate."

"What about Parker? We can't leave her here."

Sherlock glanced at the girl's sleeping form. "Donovan will see to it that she's alright. We won't be gone long, John. No more than a few hours, and the night is young."

John had his doubts, but followed without protest; if it meant solving the case, then it was fine by him.


	18. Inside the Warehouse

They were still walking. John wondered, many times, why they didn't stop and get a cab, but Sherlock was determinedly striding ahead so he just kept following. The area outside was quiet, for once without traffic or layabouts crowding things up. The pavement had been washed clean of the blood from the morning's shooting; there was nothing around to even suggest it had happened. They kept on walking, following streets he hadn't seen before. Eventually he decided to ask.

"Where are we going, exactly?"

"Hm? Didn't I tell you?"

"No, you didn't."

Sherlock held up his phone, a map glowing on the screen. It showed a small industrial area John hadn't seen before; he frowned at it, confused, and looked up for an explanation.

"Homeless network sent it to me. They say there's been an increase in the activities of an organised crime syndicate around there, and they believe this syndicate may be the same group calling themselves the Chaos."

"Right." John pocketed his hands as he thought. "I've been meaning to ask, actually, how is it the homeless network text you? They are, well, homeless."

"Some still can afford a mobile phone. Others, I gave them a phone so they can get in touch any time they need to. They're a useful source of information."

John was surprised. "Sorry, did you just say you gave them a phone?"

"Yes, of course, how else are they supposed to contact me? Here we are." Sherlock pulled open the door of a decrepit warehouse. The building's bricks were black with soot and crumbling at the edges; the hinges on the door gave a protesting creak as it was pulled open. The interior was dim and dusty from disuse, and John couldn't help but cough, wrinkling his nose at the stale air. As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they noticed something - or rather, several somethings; four people were tied to chairs in the centre of the room. Sherlock strode over, his calculating gaze sweeping over the bodies. "They're dead."

"I can see that, thanks, Sherlock." Indeed, up close it was obvious the four were deceased; drying blood at their temples, on their chests, staining the front of their police uniforms. "They're from the Met."

"Yes. The video did say the Met would fall." He fingered the edge of one officer's uniform before he noticed the paper pinned to the chest of another. Underneath the note, glowing in LED numbers, was a timer.

_Hi there! Guess you're the lucky sucker to find us here. As you can see, we've come prepared to destroy the evidence. The second you do something you really shouldn't, the timer starts. Good luck getting out before the clock stops!_

Sherlock reached forward and tore the paper from the shirt; as he did, there was a click, and an ominous beeping began, counting down each second. He ignored it, flipping over the paper. There was more writing on the back.

_You really shouldn't have done that._

John noticed the timer, the glowing green numbers counting down the seconds. There was still fifty-four left, fifty-four seconds until the warehouse would be blown to the sky. Without thinking, he grabbed Sherlock's hand and pulled him away, sprinting for the doors. Throwing them open, he pushed the detective out first, letting the door slam shut behind them as John ran, pushing Sherlock along in front of him. He kept count in his head, how many seconds they had left until the bomb would go off. Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven...

"Sherlock, down!" John barrelled into him, knocking him to the ground and trying to shield the taller man's body. Air seemed to be ripped from their lungs and they struggled to breathe for a few moments before they both drew a lungful of air and held it. The explosion rocked through the building at their left, a shockwave of heat rolling off John's back. Sherlock heard his cry of pain at the blistering heat and felt the nails dug into his arm; he didn't flinch away from it, instead keeping as still as possible until he could no longer feel the ground vibrating with the force of the blast. When he was sure it was over, Sherlock rolled them away, pulling John up with the utmost manner of gentleness. His hands were feather-light as they skimmed over the skin, searching for anything worse than the light first-degree burns across his back. Satisfied John was in no need of immediate medical care, Sherlock sat back, drawing his knees to his chest.

"Are you okay?" John coughed, pulling himself upright, wiping blood from his brow - he'd been hit by a stray rock. "Sherlock?"

He didn't reply, staring at the building engulfed in flame. John was persistent though, tugging at his shirt and calling his name. Sherlock shrugged him off, turning his back and keeping his eyes on the fiery building. Finally John seemed to realise why he wasn't replying.

"Dear god, you're not actually annoyed at me, are you? You would have died! You're lucky I pulled you out of there!"

"There was evidence in there. I could have disarmed it." Sherlock spoke with such pompous certainty John could have hit him. So he did. Both of them reeled from the punch. John stared at his fist in surprise while Sherlock rubbed his cheek, eyes wide with shock. "You hit me."

"Yes. Yes I did." The anger left the both of them as they laughed at the sheer absurdity of everything that had happened. John got to his feet, offering a hand out to help Sherlock up. He accepted, and both started brushing off their clothes, ignoring the screech of sirens as the fire engines finally arrived to the scene. They moved away slowly, not wanting to be caught up with questioning by what Sherlock would consider completely incompetent professionals. As they walked, Sherlock removed something from his breast pocket and unfolded it, his eyes giving careful judgement to the sheet of paper.

"We'll need to see Anderson." John could hear the bitterness in his voice.

"Anderson?" He asked uncertainly. "You hate him. Why Anderson?"

"Anderson may be an idiot, but he is adept at handwriting analysis...more so than...I can tell you a hundred things about this paper, where it comes from, what pen was used to write on it, but Anderson can explain how it was written."

John couldn't stop the grin that appeared on his face at hearing Sherlock explain himself. If there was one thing (other than Anderson) he hated, it was having to admit he wasn't an expert in a particular field. The situation reminded John of the whole solar system argument all over again, and his grin turned to laughter.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock snapped, but a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. They found themselves a cab and returned to the forensic unit of Scotland Yard, ready for what would undoubtedly be an unpleasant experience.


	19. Vulnerable

There was a soft tap at the door. Anderson glanced up, mildly surprised and annoyed. "Come in."

Sally Donovan closed the door behind her and turned to face him. She didn't know who he'd been expecting, but his expression had softened to a smile. "We need to talk."

"Oh, not the dreaded _we need to talk_." He ran a hand over her waist and to the small of her back; she pulled away from his touch, shaking her head slowly.

"No, I mean it. We need to talk." His face changed to a frown and he ran his eyes over her, as if he knew exactly what she was going to say next. Maybe he did. She didn't care, she was going to say them anyway. "I'm pregnant."

"I know." Sally didn't bother asking how he knew. Enough rumours had been floating around, he'd have been bound to hear one of them. They stared at each other for a few moments, a loaded silence saying more than words could. "I have a family, Sally."

"You have a wife," she corrected him automatically. He frowned at her, taking off his glasses and rubbing at the bridge of his nose as he thought.

"I have a wife, and I love her. This was just - I can't just drop everything and marry you."

"I never asked you to." His words stung. She knew she meant virtually nothing to him, but it had been nice to kid herself for just a little while.

"What are you asking, then?"

"I don't know!" She cried. "I want help. I want support. I want you to tell me what to do."

Anderson hesitated before he gave his curt reply. "You know what to do."

"No. I am not killing our baby." She lifted her head, strengthened by the statement, and gave him a defiant glare. He narrowed his eyes at her, crossed his arms and did absolutely nothing to hide the hostility in his voice.

"You will. It is not our baby. It is a fetus. You're going to get rid of it," He demanded, fixing his glare on her. She withered under the weight of the stare, but found her strength in anger.

"You can't force me to. I won't. I won't kill my baby." It pleased her to see the flash of hurt on his face when she had called it hers instead of theirs. Within a second the hurt was replaced by an indifferent stare.

"Fine." His voice turned cold. "But good luck taking care of it on your own. You live in a dingy old flat, work full time and have nobody else in the world that cares about you. If you go through with this you're going to suffer. I hope you keep that in mind while you make your decision, Sergeant Donovan."

"Of course I will," She answered cooly, marching away. She only stopped in the doorway for a few seconds to snap back the last word, trying to seem offhand. "Oh, and Anderson? It's over." She continued onwards and blinked tears from her eyes, glad he hadn't seen them. She needed some air so she made her way out back.

Sally flopped down on the step, head in her hands. She didn't know what to do. She was so lost. She'd never had a family - not a real one. A mum and dad, sure, but she hadn't seen much of them since leaving home. Loneliness was a burden she'd carried her entire life. It had never really bothered her, to be honest. She woke up every morning and told herself she was Sally Anne Donovan and she could do anything. But with this precious life inside her she was beginning to realise there were some things she was petrified of doing alone, and motherhood was most definitely one of them. She took a few breaths to steady herself before she closed her eyes and broke down in tears. She just didn't know what to do anymore.

"Donovan?" The voice was gentle, caring, and it took her a few moments to place, and it was in those few moments he joined her on the step. John Watson. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's dandy," she snapped, wiping the tears away angrily. "What are you doing down here?"

"Sherlock's off bugging Anderson. And as fun as that is to watch, I'd much rather be outside. I could do with the fresh air." She took a look at his face, full of concern. For her. He also had dried blood on his forehead and was covered in dust.

"What happened to you?"

He shrugged. "Nothing that matters. What about you? Any reason you're out here, or did you just feel like having a cry?"

Sally laughed through her tears, wiping her eyes again. "Nothing that matters. Anderson was a jerk, and I..." She shut her mouth suddenly, frowning. She didn't do this. She didn't open up, talk it out, share her feelings.

"It's okay." John was quiet, gentle again. It was if he knew. He probably did - it didn't take much thought to put two and two together. "These things have a way of working out, you know."

"But I-I'm so scared I'm going to mess everything up."

"You'll do fine. And it's not like you're in this completely alone." He looked across at the vulnerable sergeant. She did look scared. Angry, vulnerable, stressed, but mostly scared, and like she needed a friend. John frowned thoughtfully. Aside from Lestrade, Dimmock and Anderson, he didn't think he'd actually seen Donovan with any friends. Almost without realising it, he put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. He could be that friend. For now. For just the little while she needed to get herself back together, and he knew he'd never speak of this moment, this vulnerable, quiet moment, to anyone.


	20. Vanilla, and Home Long Gone

Jacky Scott had just had his sixth birthday and would proudly proclaim this to anyone who asked his age. He had a mess of dirty blonde curls that were in want of a cutting and hazel eyes that could give the most angelic of looks when he was in any sort of trouble, which was often. He was the youngest (and worst) pickpocket this side of the Thames and held the title with childish pride. When he succeeded, however, it was brilliantly done, and those unfortunately frequent times he was caught it took no more than a flutter of eyelashes and a remorseful look and anyone would let him go. He knew he looked like a scruffy little ragamuffin in his too-small shirt and holey jeans, with old ladies tutting over him at the shops, and used it to his advantage.

There was only one person Jacky's childlike charms didn't work on, and that person was his father. The man he called Dad taught him everything he knew about deceit and deception so it was only natural nothing he could do would ever work on his dad.

To tell the truth Jacky was just a little bit scared of Dad; the only person Jacky loved was his Parker. The closest thing to a mother he had, she'd given him a name, a place to sleep at night away from leering eyes with toothy grins, and a gentle embrace when he was awoken by nightmares. Dad, on the other hand, would often lose himself in drink, that _good old Irish whiskey_ as he always said. Seldom could he be relied on for anything in the nature of care; Jacky was well used to caring for himself. He had been for quite some time now, though of course, a child's idea of an amount of time and an adult's idea of it are two different things.

It was on one of those drinking nights Jacky found himself alone in the hall. The men had cleared away after the meeting the day before - he'd seen no one since aside from Dad and Dad's oldest friend, right-hand man and drinking buddy Turkish. Dad and Turkish had been playing cards, smoking, drinking and talking for hours, and Jacky was bored of watching them. He already knew how the night would end; the talking would turn into arguing, the arguing would turn to a punch up, Turkish would leave angrily but show up the next day as if nothing had happened, and Dad would fall asleep at the table and the morning after swear he'd never drink again, with a headache like no other. For the supposed ruler of what was claimed to be a criminal empire, Dad was fickle and often unpredictable. The one constant was the terrifying threat of violence he would always resort to no matter the cost.

Jacky, with nothing better to do as Turkish and Dad began a heated argument over a jack of spades, took to exploring the dark corners and side rooms of the hall. In one of the poky rooms he found a dust-covered box held shut with thick brown tape that had PARKER written down the side in faded ink. It took nothing more than a swipe with his pocketknife (not actually his; the men really ought to have watched their pocketed belongings while at that meeting) to have it open. Inside there were two leather-bound photo albums, a worn grey elephant plush with fraying ears, and notebooks. He counted them slowly, determined to get it right. Six, he thought, but numbers weren't his strong point. The same as how old he was. He pulled one open, struggling to make sense of the words before him. They were written in a vaguely familiar loopy scrawl, but reading, like numbers, was another weak point for the six-year-old boy. Pushing them aside he grabbed an album and opened it instead. Yellowing images lined each page, pictures of a very young dark-haired girl with four teenagers he didn't recognise. The girl, on the other hand, was familiar - he'd known her for as long as he could remember. His Parker, probably no older than he was. He opened the other album, unsurprised to find an older Parker on the front page. Bored, he dumped the items back into the box and went to walk away. Just four steps from the door, he stopped and turned back, pulling the grey elephant from the box and holding it close. He closed his eyes and breathed in the musty scent in the toy's material. It smelled of damp but also vaguely of vanilla. It smelled of home. A place he hadn't thought about since coming here. The cottage near the lough that was surrounded by wildflowers. The place was nothing more than a hazy memory to his young mind, but he remembered the smell. The scent of vanilla.

He clutched the elephant to his chest and ignored the tears that were streaming down his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut, biting into the back of his hand. Jacky didn't want to think of that place, that place he called home where his Mammy had lived. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost see her face, her blonde curls and green eyes, the gentle smile and that blue dress she wore in the summertime that laced up at the back. The way that blue dress had looked when it was soaked in blood and the words _red was always more her colour._

Dad lost himself after that. Little Jacky could see that, even if it was too much for his young mind to really understand. That moment, red was always more her colour, was when the drinking had started. When they'd moved to London - when Dad had told him in a quiet voice he would find "that rat bastard that took your mother from us, even if I have to tear London apart from the inside out."

It was all muddled inside his head. He could remember Parker for as long as he could remember; summertime strawberry-eating contests and strange stories read late at night. But Parker had never lived in the house by the lough. Or had she? He pulled the elephant as close as he could, pressing his face into the soft material. None of that mattered. It was time for sleep. By the sound of things, the argument between Dad and Turkish had turned to a fistfight, and Jacky wanted nothing to do with it.

Curling up on the floor, elephant still clutched in his arms, little Jacky closed his tear-filled eyes and drifted into an uneasy sleep only to be woken by a crash from inside the main hall. Tonight would be another night to keep out of sight. There would be no peaceful sleep, no Parker. Not tonight.


	21. Lestrade's Visitor

Sherlock's meeting with Anderson had gone as well as could be expected. Sherlock was seething as they walked upstairs, and John could practically hear the insult-filled rant that was likely to be running through the detective's mind at that moment. Each footstep Sherlock made landed heavily and his gait was faster than it even usually was. He practically attacked the stairs, taking them two at a time and ignoring the lift completely. John could no longer tell if he was eager to return to the case or was actually that bothered by some silly spat with Anderson, when he knew Sherlock hardly even considered the man's opinions to be of any intelligence.

"Sherlock, slow down." John struggled to keep up with his pace and gave up, slowing himself to a comfortable walk as Sherlock continued to march away.

"Imbecile," He muttered once certain John was out of earshot, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how frustrated he really was over the whole Anderson affair. It hadn't started off particularly bad; he had walked in and politely asked if Anderson would analyse the note (here Anderson would probably disagree, saying he had waltzed in and demanded the note be analysed), and Anderson had somewhat reluctantly agreed. An observation had been made that he found to be utterly ridiculous and he had corrected Anderson, in an effort to perhaps better the man's knowledge. Anderson of had taken it completely the wrong way and a minor verbal argument had begun before escalating to the point where he had thrown a Petri dish at Sherlock's head. And people said _he_ was immature. Absentmindedly Sherlock touched the spot where it had hit, glaring at nothing, muttering "imbecile" to himself once more. He made his way to Lestrade's - no, it was Dimmock's now - unit and started going through an evidence bag, waving away the constable who tried to protest. John arrived not long after, Sally Donovan in tow. He ignored them both, glancing at the clock. Four in the morning. Thirty-seven hours without sleep. Unfortunately, if he was to keep working on this case, he would have to stop and sleep soon. John and Donovan said nothing to him as they walked past, but his eyes swept over them. He already knew John had been comforting her (if the slight wet patch on his shirt had been anything to go by) but still, to actually look at her confirmed the why, and also explained Anderson's unusually quick temper earlier. A quiet chuckle to himself before he returned to the plastic-wrapped blade in his hands.

"Where's Parker?" John's voice barely registered with him, as if it came from some far-off, distant place that had nothing to do with cases or evidence or plastic-wrapped bloodstained possible murder weapons. When it did click with his mind, he looked up, seeing John's patient blue eyes.

"I don't know. Isn't she in there?" Sherlock asked, annoyed at the interruption but not overly bothered.

"No, she's gone. She was asleep when we-"

"She wasn't sleeping. Her breath hitched, she was awake, though she made quite the effort to appear as if she was still asleep."

"Maybe she went for coffee," Donovan halfheartedly suggested, still lingering in the background.

"Maybe she didn't," John said gravely, recalling two seperate events where the girl - the girl he was currently supposed to be responsible for - had gone out in the night and returned in less than sublime condition.

A look passed between the two men and Sherlock rose to his feet, walking over to the open door and observing the room with careful eyes. John was beside him, one hand at his mouth, a subconscious gesture made when he was concerned. The room was still full of the many papers and books but painfully empty of the teenage girl.

"She's out of the building."

"How can you tell?" Donovan's voice intruded on his thoughts, but he answered her question.

"My coat. John placed it over her as she slept - she's taken it with her." Sherlock looked down as he realised he only wore his purple shirt and blue scarf. He hadn't even noticed the absence of the coat, too driven by the case, too sleep deprived to properly care. He was beginning to miss details. "What time did we leave earlier?"

"Ten. That's...christ, Sherlock, that's six hours."

"Go out and find her. I don't have time for a distraction."

Sherlock returned to the evidence bag somewhat hastily, ignoring John's protests. Sally was unsurprised by the freak's reaction, but she noticed the slightest frown cross his face. Putting it down to annoyance at being interrupted, she pulled on her jacket and clasped one hand to John's shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll help. She's probably just gone home."

John's tense nod and tightened fists told Sherlock he was very angry at him. He dismissed it, his eyes barely watching as Sally Donovan lead him away, to find the girl. He found himself unable to concentrate after a few moments and sighed, squeezing his eyes shut slowly. Petty emotion. He pulled out his phone and had an apology typed before he deleted the half-written message, switching off his phone. No distractions. The lives of quite a few more girls, and police officers, and the general public, depended on it. Firstly, the murder weapon. And he needed to call Molly Hooper.

She wasn't asleep. She'd woken up the moment Sherlock's coat touched her skin but had stayed still, eyes closed, making sure her breathing didn't quicken and waited until they were gone. Once she was alone she curled up, pulling the coat around her shoulders and closing her eyes once more. Her mind wandered to her boy - her sweet Jacky, the little brother she'd never had. It made her heart physically ache thinking about him and the danger he continually lived in. All she ever wanted was to ensure his safety, preferably with her. But that was impossible; explaining the situation to her mother, her family - the legal rubbish she'd have to go through to keep him with her. Not for the first time Parker wished she had someone to talk to, someone she could tell everything to. Just a person who could listen. Somebody who could help - a knight in shining armour, she mused, though she had no belief in such ideas.

Parker pulled on the heavy coat. It hung well past her knees but she paid it no mind and pulled it close, walking downstairs quietly, trying to avoid notice. She wanted out. Out of the building. Out of the city, out of the country. Out of the reaches of him and his men. Distractedly one hand drifted to brush across her bruised face; she clenched it into a fist and kept walking. She knew exactly where she was going, or so she thought. She was a little surprised to find herself standing outside the hospital, but decided she may as well make the best of an opportunity as it presented itself to her.

Walking inside, she paused before the desk, wondering if she should ask where the room was. The kindly old woman behind the desk leaned over and asked if she was alright. Reminded heavily of her aunt, Parker nodded slowly, reached for a pen and wrote the name carefully on the back of her hand, showing it to the woman. After a quick scroll through the computer, the woman gave her the room number and directions on how to get there. Smiling her thanks, Parker hurried away to the lift. Once inside - and alone, it was towards the end of visiting hours - the smile dropped and turned to a dark frown.

Her hands shook as she opened the door, careful not to make any noise. He laid unconscious and unmoving, the room quiet aside from his heavy breaths through the respirator. Greg Lestrade was no better than he had been in the two days since being shot. Uncertainly, she took his heavy and calloused hand in hers, and pulled the chair closer to the bed. After a moment her lips parted, and her strangled voice, hoarse from disuse, filled the room. He would listen, and better yet, he couldn't say anything.

She told the comatose inspector the story of her and Jacky, and he didn't hear a word.


	22. Hunting the Big Bad Wolf

Her pounding heartbeat was a fluttering butterfly under her ribcage. Her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, but they all knew she wouldn't dare throw a punch, though she suspected he wanted her to. Any excuse to cause her pain. He was a sadist, a malicious fucking sadist, and all of his rage was taken out of her and all his delight came from her pain.

The barrel of the gun was pressed tight to the quivering boy's temple. His eyes were wide, his lips pressed tightly together, fists clenched in a pose mirroring hers, but she knew he was petrified despite the childlike bravado. By now she knew better than to beg for mercy - it would only serve to anger and irritate him further. So she stayed where she was, as still as she could, unable to pull the boy from his grip and into the safety of hers. The tense silence was broken only by her erratic heartbeat, which seemed loud enough to be heard by them all.

"So. You spoke to the dying inspector. How about we continue this pattern and you speak with me." His voice was cool as ever, his quirked eyebrow and meaningful smirk daring her. Jacky gave her a wide-eyed, suffering look, and a stab of pain (was it physical or emotional, she wondered) struck her thumping heart.

"He's not dying." Parker still jumped at the sound of her own voice, having gone so long without hearing it. It sounded as scratchy as a cat's claws on a chalkboard, but it strengthened with every word. "He'll pull through."

"We'll see." He have her a nasty grin and the gun drifted from Jacky's temple to rest under his chin. His finger ran lovingly, teasingly over the trigger. He would do it. He would kill his only son if it meant she stayed quiet. There was one flaw to this plan, and that was the boy was so far her only reason to comply with his demands.

He pulled the gun away from the young boy's face and released him, his eyes running over the shining weapon in his hand. Jacky threw himself at Parker and held her as tight as he could. She lifted him into her arms, pulling him close and stepping backwards as she adjusted to the child's weight. He watched them accusingly while the gun swung playfully from one finger.

"Close your eyes," A barely perceptible whisper in Jacky's ear as he approached. He caressed her face with the gun's barrel, running it and his fingertips down her bruised cheek with a manic smile. Fueled by fear and adrenaline and before he could react, she'd kneed him in the stomach and snatched the gun away, pointing it straight between his eyes. His breath froze and the room went still.

It began as a light chuckling before turning to full-blown hysterical laughter. He stared her down, laughing all the while with that dangerous look in his eye until she pulled the gun back and pointed it to the roof. He nodded slowly as the mocking laughter died down and his grin faded. He allowed Parker to retain her tight hold on both the gun and the child but pushed his face close to hers, hissing into her ear. "Good girl, little Red. Good girl."

She could hear the sarcasm in his voice. He tilted her head back so she was forced to stare him in the eyes. "You can't win this. There are people working to stop you." It was far easier to speak in a whisper.

"Red, sweetheart," He laughed, and she caught a glimpse of that unbalanced side his dapper facade worked to disguise. "You're still operating under the belief that every policeman is working for the greater good...that good will always defeat the bad guys. You still think everybody's going to get their happy ending."

She didn't reply, her eyes flickering to the shaking boy she held. He had his eyes tightly shut as she'd asked with his arms looped around her neck. She almost wanted to tell him to block his ears but didn't out of fear if he let go, she'd drop him. Parker felt trapped, panicked, boxed in. She realised that the only way she was going to leave the hall that day would be in a body bag.

"My boys have started to destroy this city, and soon your little detective friends are going to realise not all their cops can be trusted...don't look at me like that, Red, of course I've had someone following you. I have since you came to the city. Your mummy and daddy may not be aware of it but you got yourself mixed up in something very bad that day you pulled little Jacky out of the river in Ireland. You wanted to stay in his life, you got every part of it. Now tell me, sweetheart, are you going to stay quiet for me? Or are you going to cry wolf?"

Deep breaths, she told herself. Deep breaths. Her shoulder, shirt and hair were all damp from Jacky's tears. Everything she'd done for the past three years had been for him. Finding the emaciated three-year-old had been a blessing and a curse. The child had given her a reason to live and she'd seen to it he had food and relative safety even after coming back to England. And when they'd moved to London last year she had thought this meant the boy would finally be safe...but in the past six months she'd been drawn deeper into secrets and lies that were far too much for a seventeen year old to handle. He'd kept her around as a convenience until he decided she was of use to him, overseeing part of his supposed empire.

Jacky needed to be safe. That was all that mattered now.

The first shot fired to the roof made him recoil while Jacky cowered in her arms. The second was poorly aimed into his leg and he screeched quite a few words that made her wish she had asked Jacky to cover his ears. The third hit his lower abdomen, and the fourth his shoulder. The fifth hit him straight between the eyes, and the little "o" of surprise didn't move from his face as the body crumpled to the floor.

Parker knew there was nothing to stop Turkish from continuing where he left off. She also knew that even without a leader the group would continue to ravage the city. But all that mattered right then was he was gone and there was nothing left to stop her from taking the boy.

"Say goodbye to daddy," she murmured, shoving the gun into her pocket. It would be at the bottom of the river before lunchtime. Parker Scott left the hall for a final time and didn't look back.


	23. Don't Panic

Dr Watson and Sergeant Donovan arrived at Baker St with haste. A brief series of frenzied knocks at the door of 221A with no answer. John thundered up the stairs with Donovan at his heels and threw the door of his flat open, greeted by a relieving (and surprising) sight.

Parker was asleep on the lounge, mouth open, snoring softly. In her arms was a young boy who clung to her body closely, his head resting on her chest. His blonde curls were messed and spun through with cobwebs, his face streaked with dried tears and mottled with yellowing bruises. The tears had left pale lines where they had cleaned through the dirt on his face. The boy shifted in his sleep and bit his lip, shuddering. Parker's arms tightened around him protectively, as if shielding the boy from some unseen assailant.

"Who's the kid?" Donovan asked quietly. However her voice was not quiet enough and the child jerked awake, blinking stupidly in the light. The two people in the room swam before his eyes; he saw blue eyes and blonde hair, not unlike his own, and cowered instinctively. His vision cleared and the man appeared; not Dad. Dad was gone. Even though Parker had told him not to look, he couldn't help but peek. The red that had pooled around his unmoving body. Jacky was just a young child, but he had the first malicious thought he'd ever experienced at seeing the sight of his father in a pool of his own blood. And that thought was he deserved it. Jacky was too young to understand words like abuse and neglect, but there were some things he did understand - fear, panic, helplessness. All at the hands of his Dad he felt those things, and to see Dad in that position once, that position of fear and helplessness, hadn't scared Jacky. It had made him feel things were balanced now - justified.

Of course he was too young to understand that. But he did know that now, with Parker, even with the uncertainty of the future, he felt safe.

"I've no idea," John breathed, folding his arms and tilting his head. The doctor and young boy stared at each other for a few moments before John turned his eyes to the girl and raised his voice. "Parker! Awake, if you please."

She visibly jumped and her eyes snapped open, one hand snatching at the revolver beside her. Relaxing when she realised who it was, she dropped the gun and sat up, one arm still circled tightly around the boy.

"Parker, who is this?" John sounded exasperated and Sally did not blame him one bit. She stepped back and allowed him to begin his interrogation and lecturing of the girl, instead observing the flat. It was the first time she'd been inside it without any sort of criminal excuse - no drug busts, no search warrants, no hunting for evidence. When it wasn't a potential crime scene the flat was actually quite...homely, but Sally suspected this was partially because of the two children, and partially because John had cleared away any remaining experiments from the living room and kitchen. Yes, the lack of decomposing body parts definitely brightened the place up. A bit. There was still a skull on the mantelpiece and a bullet-ridden wall. When the girl didn't respond, John kneeled in front of the two and looked the child in the eyes, his tone much more kindly. "Can you tell me your name?"

He looked to Parker for permission. She nodded slowly and he turned back to Dr Watson. "Jacky Scott."

"Jacky...Scott?" John tried to meet Parker's eyes but she avoided his gaze, tucking her legs up underneath her body. She was the youngest of her siblings, and he definitely wasn't her son. "Okay, Jacky, I'm Dr John Watson. You can call me John. Can I check him over for any injuries?" What he meant, of course, was any injuries other than the half-healed beaten face?

The question was directed at Parker and she nodded, releasing her grip on Jacky. Sally watched as John ran his careful doctor's eyes over the boy, fetching the stethoscope and first aid kit when he asked her to.

"Can you tell me where these bruises came from?" The boy stared fiercely at the ground and Parker remained stubbornly silent, her hazel eyes seeming to stare straight through him. John sighed as he cleaned a nasty cut on the boy's side, sharing a look with Donovan. Abuse, that much was obvious. He didn't know why Parker had an abused child, or why she had chosen to seek refuge in his flat, or why had been sleeping with Sherlock's revolver. But something told him she'd only done it in desperation. He looked to her again. Her hands trembled, her lips were bloody from where they'd been bitten, her eyes slightly glazed. She looked almost frightened but physically she had relaxed since John and Donovan had walked in.

Sally grabbed a nearby blanket and put it around the girl's shoulders, taking a seat beside her. The bruises on her face and scrapes on her hands had begun to heal, but there was a fresh cut on her cheek and a few of the minor wounds on her hands had reopened. Sally and John both shared the uneasy feeling that something happened in the seven hours Parker had been gone, but any time they tried to question her she'd shake her head and wring her hands, still staring at something distant.

When two sets of footsteps could be heard on the stairs, Parker seized the revolver and pointed it straight at the door while Jacky shook in fear, firmly gripping at John's jacket. John barely had time for a fierce "Put the gun down," before Sherlock pushed open the door with his usual bravado. Molly paused behind him, staring at the admittedly unusual scene. She had been in 221B many times, but never had she seen a child inside, or a concerned looking Sally Donovan, or a teenage girl clutching a gun and pointing it straight at Sherlock. In fact, there were many things Molly hadn't seen, but that day she saw three of them.

The gun was lowered with a shaking hand and taken from the girl by Donovan, who grumbled something quietly about gun safety laws as she moved it out of Parker's reach. All eyes were on her as she drew her knees to her chest, quivering from head to toe. Sherlock's calculating eyes ran over the girl and he drew in a quick breath. Barely visible gunshot residue stained her sleeve, the opened cuts on her hands, her anxiously bloodied lips. The glazed eyes and obvious symptoms of shock.

"Keep that away from her. Molly, test the left hand sleeve of my coat for gunshot residue. Donovan, take her into that room and leave that blanket on her arms...tight. John." Sherlock glanced distractedly to the doctor. "Done fixing the boy? Good. He's not to be in the same room as her."

His eyes flicked back to Parker to judge her reaction. A look of utter panic crossed her face and she lunged at Jacky, pinned back by Donovan's arm flung across her path. A flurry of fists and fingernails as she tried to fight Sally off, but Detective Sergeant Donovan was not going to be beaten by a teenage girl. There was a jumble of voices for a moment as Sally cried for Parker to stop struggling with John yelling at her to calm down. Molly tried to pacify the situation and Jacky was begging to stay with Parker. Sherlock gave everyone an aggravated look and his booming voice filled the room. "Everyone shut up!"

The flat became so silent one could hear a pin drop. Parker still tried to squirm away from Donovan but Sally held her tight and pinned her arms to her sides with one steady arm. Sherlock's tone became uncharacteristically soft. "Parker, stop, I needed to see how you were going to react. It's okay. We're not taking him away from you." He crouched in front of her, tilting his head much like John had and giving her a gentle smile. "It's okay."

It always unnerved Sally to see Sherlock put on that charming, friendly facade, slipping easily from his natural state of indifference to the image of a smiling saint. Sally arched an eyebrow at John with a twitch of her head in the girl's direction. He nodded and she slowly let go of the girl, who took short and panicked breaths as she stared into Sherlock's eyes. Sally wondered if the girl could see through the smile to the ruthlessly determined man underneath - she'd certainly seen him working. She had seen Sherlock. But Sally thought there was a part of the girl that was convinced, because Parker relaxed.

"Alright. Come on," Still using that soothing voice, Sherlock took the girl by the hand and lead her away, pushing her towards his room. The moment her back was turned the serene expression - dear god, Donovan thought, it was almost endearing - dropped from his face and he mouthed for John to bring his kit and check over the girl. John handed Jacky to Molly, who gave him one of her sweet smiles and asked the boy if he wanted to see a science experiment before taking him to the kitchen. Molly of course knew where everything in the flat was and Sally got that uncomfortable feeling of not quite belonging somewhere. Sherlock turned away from John and joined Sally on the couch, clasping his hands together and regarding her with one of those looks.

"Don't, Freak," She said, folding her arms. She couldn't stand it when he did that thing he did, just looking at her and knowing everything. His eyes swept over her body anyway. Any other man she'd consider it lascivious, but with Holmes it was nothing more than cold judgement. Puffy, bloodshot eyes, messy hair, and an unwashed face were just a few subtle clues to Sherlock that she hadn't been home for a while. She still wore the shirt he'd seen her in yesterday and, now that he thought about it, the day before when she'd called him into the station. Her pants and jacket had been changed though, so obviously she did keep some spare items around her office. If he made an educated guess (though with him it never really was a guess, more a conclusion) she hadn't slept in three days. Sally squirmed under his gaze, annoyed, feeling an invasion on her privacy because he always knew and was always right.

"One moment." He walked away, back into his room, where John was currently listening to Parker's heartbeat. He opened his drawers and pulled out a clean shirt with a pair of tracksuit pants he had never worn. Back in the living room he handed them to a confused Sally, who stared down at them and back up at him.

"The bathroom is down the hall. Towels are in the cupboard next to it. Try not to look in the bathtub if you're feeling squeamish."

"Why are you...?" Sally Donovan wasn't just confused, she was befuddled. Unlike the show of acted kindness from before, this seemed genuine. It was disconcerting, because Freak was not nice. Or kind.

"I'm not heartless, Donovan." Another of those judging looks accompanied by the slightest sad smile, nothing more than a twitch of his mouth she almost didn't see.


	24. Not This Case

To her surprise the bathroom was clean and tidy. Tidier than hers anyway. She recalled Sherlock's words about the bathtub and kept her gaze firmly away from whatever he had inside. She placed the folded pile of clothes and towel on the vanity and got into the shower, wondering who on earth would pay more than twenty quid for tracksuit bottoms. They were comfortable enough, anyway, and just about fit though the shirt was a little loose. She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror for a solid minute, running her fingers through her frizzy hair. What the hell was she doing here, she asked herself. She was standing in the bathroom of Sherlock Holmes. In his flat. Wearing clothes she'd borrowed off him.

Back in the lounge the man himself was watching Molly Hooper observe his coat under a microscope with a bemused face. The boy was sitting up on the table and watching curiously as she swabbed something onto the material. Holmes was tapping his foot and drumming his fingers along the armrest and Sally got the distinct impression he was bored.

"Coffee?" He asked, his voice distant, holding up a mug and sighing. She took it, trying not to laugh. Sherlock frowned. "Something funny, Donovan?"

"I am sitting inside the flat of Sherlock Holmes, drinking coffee. I just had a shower in your bathroom. I'm wearing your clothes...christ, Holmes. Can't you see how absurd this is?"

"The girl's just about asleep...and no, Sally, he really can't," John gave a halfhearted laugh as he returned to the room. "But do keep in mind it's my flat too."

Molly chuckled from the kitchen and shot a timid smile Sally's way. She couldn't help but return it. She liked Molly Hooper well enough, the few times they'd spoken. The shy pathologist was incredibly awkward but likable, and now that Sally thought about it last time she'd seen her - over six months ago, on the case with star tattoos - Molly and Sally had ended up spending an hour in the lab exchanging stories of the many eccentricities of Sherlock Holmes.

Just as Donovan was beginning to wind down, her phone began a shrill series of rings. Glaring at it, she gave a resigned sigh and answered the call. "Donovan here."

"Sergeant, we've got a body. Inspector Dimmock wants you and Holmes down here to look at it...it's thought to be connected to the chaos."

"Alright. We'll be down as soon as possible, Tyler." Disconnecting the call, she turned around only to find herself face-to-face with Sherlock. Startled, she jumped backwards and ignoring John and Molly's laughter she calmly said "We've got a case."

"Brilliant. Let's go then." Sherlock bounded out the door, took the stairs two at a time and was out on the street before she'd even moved.

"He'll leave without you if you don't hurry," John remarked, sharing an amused grin with Molly. It was annoying when it happened to them, but watching someone else suffer through Sherlock was rather fun.

"Sure," She said uncertainly, grabbing her jacket from the lounge and following the eager detective. They took a cab to the address DC Tyler messaged with and sat in silence the entire way there. When the cab slowed to a stop in a lower-class neighbourhood, filled with derelict houses and disused factories, Sally looked around uneasily. She was used to working in some of the more unpleasant areas in town (hell, where she lived wasn't exactly Mayfair) but something about the building they'd stopped in front of sent chills down her spine. Sherlock held up the police tape and she ducked under it, walking through the open doors, flanked by the detective, who she realised was a full head taller than her. His eyes swept over the body, the pooled blood, and she knew he could tell everything he needed to know in forty seconds.

"I don't want to work on this case." Sherlock's tone was entirely flat as he turned to walk away. The surrounding officers and detectives' eyes followed him, each sharing the same blankly confused expression.

"Sorry. Hang on a second," Donovan matched after him, fixing on the retreating figure with a steely glare. "Holmes!"

He didn't stop walking, barely turning his head to her. Sally hurried after him, still calling his name. Finally she lost her temper, planted her feet and furiously shouted, "Freak! I am speaking to you, do not walk away from me!"

Sherlock sighed impatiently, spinning to face her. "What, Sergeant?"

"Why aren't you working the case?" Straightforward, matter-of-fact, arms folded. Giving him a no-nonsense attitude as she always did when on a case. He hesitated briefly, thoughtfully, before deciding to give her the honest answer.

"The body- the victim," he corrected himself. "I have reason to believe the man in there is the boy's father. Meaning..." Sherlock looked at her expectantly, for once patiently waiting for her to work it out.

"Meaning Parker would be under suspicion for murder." She sighed and closed her eyes. Suddenly she found her morals being questioned. Ordinarily she would never allow a perp to go free, despite the circumstances. And never before had she ignored a lead, especially not one that lead her straight to the killer. But the terrified teenage girl and abused boy were just children - and in any way, if the girl was prosecuted it would only serve to hurt both her and the boy. "I understand."

He gave her a brief nod and turned to walk away, pausing briefly. Donovan had left clothing at his flat. He asked himself what John would do here and was unhappy with the answer. but still he turned and called her back. "Donovan, would you like to come over for dinner tonight? You left some things...in the flat...and John would probably like to see you ate something while working, given your...well."

Sally tried not to grin. Give him dead bodies and he'd talk rapidly, almost incoherently; but have Sherlock Holmes propose a social event and he'd become awkward while still trying to maintain his conceited, confident air. "Alright. I'll be there at seven, and bring the new lead on the rape cases."

Sherlock nodded, pulling out his phone as he walked away and typing out a quick text to inform John.


	25. Dinner

Cooking is good.

This was one of the few certainties John Watson felt he had left in his life. The city could be falling to pieces around you, but so long as you took a few minutes to do something as simple as make a slice of toast, you could face anything.

Of course, what John was currently cooking was a bit more complicated than a slice of toast. Creamy chicken pasta was not as easy as it looked and it was damn annoying. The chicken was baking fine and the pasta was child's play. But something about the creamy sauce wasn't working, something in the consistency. Molly had offered to stay and help but he'd turned her down; oh no Molly, you've got much better things to do. That was a mistake, because now he needed some expertise in the chicken pasta field - though the idea of Molly being such an expert did make him chuckle a bit. The skinny six-year-old was watching him wide-eyed from the armchair, knees drawn to his chest. Parker was still fast asleep. He didn't blame her, the poor thing. It had been a stressful day.

"Oh bloody hell!" He tried adding a little more cheese to the sauce, eyes skimming the recipe for further instruction and coming up with nothing. "Sod this."

"That's not a very nice word." The boy gave him a disapproving look from the armchair, staring him down in the manner only a child could. He shook his head and hid his smile, picking up the spoon and going back to the sauce.

"You're right, it isn't. So I should hope I won't ever hear you using it."

"Nice save, Watson." A laughing voice came from somewhere to his right. "You wouldn't make a bad dad, you know."

"Sally!" John jumped, glancing at the clock. "Bit early, aren't you? Didn't you have a body to be dealing with?"

"Ah, yes. Sherlock wouldn't take the case. We decided that it was a suicide...inconsistent evidence. Seemed the most logical answer."

"A suicide? Sherlock said there were four gunshot wounds." John raised his eyebrows, momentarily confused until suddenly it seemed to click for him and he understood. Still, he looked at Sally, waiting for an answer.

"Well, either he was a masochist or he had very poor aim."

His mouth twitched into a smile and he half-sighed, half-chuckled. "You're nearly as bad as Sherlock."

"A week ago I would've punched you for saying that. Actually, I'm still considering it." She returned his smile. "But today I think I'll take it as a compliment."

"Don't let him hear you say that. Go on, sit down. This is almost done and he'll be home soon."

As if on cue, Sherlock swept into the room with his usual grandiosity, walking in an overconfident swagger. John could tell immediately he'd solved something that had been annoying him; he only got that look when he was immensely proud of his actions. Sherlock didn't greet them, merely throwing off his coat and scarf and taking the chair opposite Donovan. His eyes swept over the table, looking for the half-finished experiment he'd left there, and was unsurprised to hear John mutter "They're in my room, Sherlock, don't worry."

As the plates were placed in front of them, Sherlock wrinkled his nose and looked down at it. It looked entirely unappetising, but he hadn't eaten properly since yesterday and the look John was giving him was enough to make him pick up his fork and start eating. Donovan seemed to be enjoying it, and Jacky had hesitantly moved from the chair to a place at the table and was eating his quietly. John knocked at Parker's door and quietly called, "Parker, we've got food out here if you're hungry." When there was no reply he joined the others at the table and attacked his plate with an unusual gusto.

"So, Sergeant, has any new evidence come forward on that murder case?" Sherlock asked through a mouthful of food, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinised Sally from across the table. She shook her head and cleared her throat.

"We concluded it was a suicide and closed the case."

Sherlock laughed quietly, sharing a look with John. He never expected that Sergeant Sally Donovan - rule-following, law-abiding, inherently good Sally Donovan - would go so against protocol and actually go against evidence in an investigation. However, she seemed to have an unfortunate weakness for children and would do anything to protect them. It seemed this was enough to fight her pathological need to follow the rules. "Did you get Molly's report on the ruptured spleen and the damaged lung tissue?"

John nearly choked on his food, swallowing quickly. "Can we not discuss body parts at the table, please?"

Sally and Sherlock both ignored him. "Yes, I found that unusual. And the lung suggesting suffocation without any physical evidence towards it? Any ideas?"

"He was a heavy smoker, but something tells me there's more to it than that. I suggest we have Molly perform a full autopsy to view the middle lobe, and full toxicology. I expect we'll find a drug of some sort in his system. He was a dead man anyway."

Sally nodded, spearing another piece of pasta and chewing thoughtfully. As she swallowed, she said "Did you read the other victim report, mentioning the punctured lung filled with putrid coagulated blood?"

John groaned as he dropped his fork, covering his face with his hands. "I have died. I have died and gone to hell and this is my ungodly punishment."

"John, don't be dramatic. The entire purpose of this was to discuss the case...speaking of which," Sherlock turned back to Sally, "Did you get the lab report on those burn marks in the eyelids of the fourth victim?"

"No, no, I'm definitely dead." John pushed his plate away, looking green at the mere mention of victim eyelids. "Can't you please discuss this after we've finished eating? Or better yet, go back to hating each other! I'm not sure I can cope with childish banter and...and eyelids. Not at dinner."

The next five minutes of the meal was relatively silent, aside from Sherlock muttering quietly that he _liked_ discussing eyelids no matter the time of day. Sally tried to look serious, staring down at her plate, but was unable to contain her laughter for more than a few seconds. The moment she looked Sherlock in the eye, she started to chuckle.

"What? What's so funny, Donovan?"

"You two. You squabble like an old married couple."

John sighed and got up, walking away from the table and upstairs with a dramatic huff, slamming his bedroom door behind him. Sherlock's eyes followed his movement before he faced Sally again and remarked, "Isn't he a drama queen?"


	26. War

Her golden eyes stared through him as if he were a vapid sitcom as he pounded his hands onto her rib cage, trying to keep to a rhythm. It was obvious he was failing as her gaze slipped further and further away until her eyes glazed over. Still he wouldn't give up, pressing his palms into her chest repeatedly, counting as he did so. The moment he got to thirty he'd pause, gulp in a lungful of precious oxygen, pinch her nose and close his lips over her mouth. He kept at it for as long as he could, but then rough hands were dragging him away from her and men in white were crouching around her, calling her the body like she was some kind of inanimate thing. He pushed the hands that held him back, but feebly so; he was too weakened by his lifesaving efforts to loosen the grip.

"Tomas? Tomas Delaware?" A deep voice intruded into his empty mind. With a jolt he realised the voice belonged to the hands holding him still and tore his eyes from her unmoving corpse as the medics covered it. A man had his tanned hands clasped over Tom's shoulders, keeping him from moving. His fingers dug into the younger man's shoulder, but not in a painful way, merely forceful. The man was not exceptionally tall, with sandy hair and deep blue eyes that were currently studying him with great concern. "PC Delaware, I need you to come with me."

Tom found himself at a loss for words. His darling Dinah was being loaded into the back of an ambulance, still dripping in blood with her painfully empty face hidden from view. There was no longer any breath in her lungs; no twist of smoke from between crimson lips that were wording some clever mock insult. There was no longer pale skin and brown hair twisted up into a French knot, or golden eyes outlined in black. There was no longer any Dinah, so what possible reason could there be to leave with this man? To even move from this place? What reason was there to wash the blood from his hands?

"Tomas, please." John Watson pulled the younger man up, supporting most of his weight as he lead him away. He stumbled beside the doctor, unable to speak. He wasn't sure why this man - who was pretty obviously a doctor, with the stethoscope dangling around his neck and at the badge clipped onto the waistband of his trousers - was trying to pull him away from the accident scene, the police, the ambulance. He didn't know that Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan had ordered John down here and told him to get through the officials by any means possible, or that the hospital badge that John now unclipped and tossed aside was stolen. John let go of the officer, who had gone into shock. Letting him slip onto the pavement and stare blankly at the bricks ahead, he pulled the stethoscope from around his neck and stuffed it into his thankfully large coat pockets. A quick search produced his phone, which he used to dial the number of a certain consulting detective.

"Yeah, tell Sally I have him. Short staff means the single cop and two paramedics were willing to take any help that came their way - what do you mean it's morally - oh bite me, you use Lestrade's badge all the bloody time. No, I don't know if the others were good or bad. Where are the kids?"

Tomas stared up at the fast-talking doctor as a stream of abuse came from his mouth, ending with "What do you fucking mean you don't know where the kids are? I gave you one job, Sherlock!"

He was slightly dumbstruck as the doctor seemed to be overcome with rage, freezing, his face turning white with his jaw clenched. The young officer pushed himself backwards as the doctor hung up and exhaled slowly. John stared down at him for a second before holding out one hand.

"Come on. I'm sorry about your wife."

"She wasn't my wife," He managed to choke out, suddenly overcome with emotion as the shock began to wear off. It took him a few moments to swallow down his tears and he allowed John to pull him back up. The doctor was cold, standoffish, and didn't say another word as he lead Tomas down the streets. Still in the daze of shock, he allowed himself to be taken to a nearby house; one familiar to the doctor, but not to him.

Tomas found 221 Baker Street to be pretty damn well looking. He and Dinah lived in a shabby flat in one of the more shady areas of town. He earned a bit on his wages, she had a job at a local restaurant - pretty meagre and definitely beneath his darling's skills and smarts. He promised her things would change once he got promoted and she could quit her job, they could get married in a proper big church wedding like she deserved, and maybe even start a family.

He supposed none of that mattered now. She was gone.

John pushed him towards the stairs before walking down the hall; unsure as to what he should do, he walked upwards and rapped at the door, four quick knocks in quick succession.

"We're not taking any cas- oh. Constable Delaware. Come in."

A deep voice greeted him as the door was opened by a gangly man with dark, curly hair and eyes the colour of an ocean. Tomas stepped inside, his disjointed mind finally beginning to pull the pieces together, but he found himself in such a disbelieving stupor he was unable to react. His dilated eyes began to survey the room; it was filled with clutter, a mess of folders, books, papers and - was that a human heart in a jar? He visibly shook himself, as if he could shake the mishmash of thoughts straight from his head.

Quite suddenly he found himself being pulled into the arms of a woman, who embraced him so tightly and completely he couldn't help but wonder if perhaps, by some miracle, she was his mother. When she pulled back, though, his eyes took in a mess of dark curls and coffee-coloured skin, two soulful brown eyes staring up at him from a thin face. It took a few moments but he did recognise her. Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan.

"Tomas, I am so sorry!"

He found himself in yet another hug by Donovan's arms, and for just half a moment he wondered why she was apologising before it hit him again, that crushing realisation that his Dinah was dead. There was no other word for it, no other way to describe it or say it. It was a cold and harsh statement, an unforgiving word, but it was the truth. Dinah was dead. He knew what dead was, and knew it well. A life in police work would do that to a person. Dead was the lack of respiration and pulse, the cessation of life, the decaying of physical matter until nothing remained. The extinguishment of one of the universe's many glowing sparks. And there was nothing he could do to change that.

Tomas was guided to a lush sofa nearby and forced to sit, a cup of warm tea put into his hands. Donovan's cool hand rubbed soothing circles into the base of his back, the other handing him a tissue to wipe away the tears that had formed in his eyes.

Eventually he found the courage to ask. "Sergeant, what am I doing here?"

She gave a short, sharp laugh, sounding bitter when she spoke. "Tomas, you're aware of the Chaos, aren't you?"

He nodded; of course he was. In the two weeks since they'd announced their existence, the group had truly been living up to its name. Crime had not tripled or even quadrupled, but had increased to such a level that hospitals and police stations were becoming understaffed, underfunded and running purely on volunteering and overtime. Many had just quit because of the threats to the lives of their loved ones. Tomas had received such a threat and elected to ignore it. And now Dinah was dead.

"They've taken everything. But we can't prove it. So now we're just taking on people who we can trust."

"What about the government?"

"Tomas, why do you think nothing's been done about the crime? The...chaos that's taken over the city? They have the government. They have everyone."

"Not everyone." The gangly, deep-voiced man spoke up from his place in the corner. "My brother-"

"Isn't here right now, Sherlock. It's up to us." Donovan sounded tired, like this was a conversation she had repeatedly. Sherlock didn't respond, shaking his head slowly; for all their issues, he had faith his brother could solve this problem. He was unaware Mycroft was solving the problem, in his own way - and he wouldn't know that for quite some time.

There were a few tense and awkward moments of nobody saying anything at all, until the grief-stricken constable looked up from his tea and decided to ask. "What can I do about it?"

"Well I guess this is war, Tomas." Sally gave him one of those sad, frustrated smiles he only ever saw when she'd been working for hours. "What are you going to do about it?"


End file.
